


no remedy for love (but to love more)

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Series: walked into love with you [1]
Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-10 11:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: "So, my lady," Benvolio purred, just loud enough to satisfy the curious ears. "What great scheme has crossed that lovely head of yours?"--Benvolio and Rosaline might be getting married against their will, but they're definitely planning on taking the upper hand here. Cupid is primarily a small theater stage manager, but they're ready to compete.





	1. passion, enmity

**Author's Note:**

> Has there ever been a better show for someone as Shakespeare trash as I am? I highly doubt it. Blame @queenofchildren for enabling me.
> 
> Title from Henry David Thoreau: "There is no remedy for love but to love more."

The dress Rosaline had chosen was made of a rich, velvety amber fabric, soft and warm to the touch, a sensation Rosaline had long forgotten. Since she'd come to live with Lord and Lady Capulet, she'd only ever been so close to such luxury upon tending to her dear Juliet. Now though, her cousin's bedroom was _hers_ ; her clothes, her jewelry, her perfumes and powders, too.

She was about to sit at the dressing table to work on her hair when someone knocked at the door; her uncle appeared at the threshold and let himself in before she could even invite him in. "Rosaline," he spoke her name, trying to hide his dissatisfaction at being here with a forced smile. Although he wasn't as hostile to her as Juliet's mother had always been - in truth Rosaline knew he could have loved her like his own, were it not for his wife - Lord Capulet was clearly just as displeased with their current predicament. Having to introduce Rosaline as his heiress was one thing, _but_ taking care of the wedding arrangements and escorting his niece to meet her betrothed were affairs his lady wife was _supposed_ to take care of.

"Uncle," Rosaline bowed her head politely. "I will be ready shortly."

"Now, _that's_ what I came here about," her uncle said as he eyed the amber dress she'd adorned. "This meeting with Lord Montague and his nephew is very important, as I am certain you understand, Rosaline. First impressions are of the upmost importance."

Rosaline's brow creased a little. She'd never known her uncle to care about impressing a _Montague_ of all people. Besides, she and Benvolio had already met on multiple occasions; his opinion of her was surely formed by now as hers of him. Not that Rosaline _cared_ \- he was a Montague, first and foremost, and known all across Verona for spending his nights between taverns and brothels. She _wasn't_ keen on trying to make an impression on such a man.

But her uncle only frowned at her, as if sensing her thoughts. "There has never been an union like this. But our house can benefit from it, if you only learn your place and role beside our young lord Montague." He tried to smile, to soften the blow, to try and make it sound like this was about her and not his own interests.

Rosaline willed herself not to snap back. As much as her uncle hated the Montagues, she _had_ expected him to try and make the most of her impending nuptials; Lord Montague was certainly having the same kind of conversation with his nephew. Sending a fox in the chicken coop was, after all, the only logical answer to the situation for both lords.

It _was_ the answer Rosaline had _hoped_ , too. By making both she and Benvolio pawns in their games, Rosaline was counting on that newfound common goal to form some kind of alliance with her betrothed. Wasn't that the very _purpose_ of marriage, after all? Wouldn't her uncle be _thrilled_ to see her spending so much time with Benvolio, seemingly getting to know her future husband while she would be plotting like any and every Capulet had done for decades?

She smiled at her uncle, a little coy, and the smile he gave her in return felt almost genuine. "Now, Rosaline," he said, his hand light on her arm as he shook his head, "that gown just won't do."

Rosaline resigned herself to giving up the amber dress she favored so much, the rich shade flattering to her complexion, for a pale, tea rose gown with golden and green hand-embroidery Lord Capulet chose for her. _Just lovely_ , her uncle had commented before leaving her, as _lovely_ was what he intended her to be. Lovely, and soft, and gentle, all good qualities a lord's wife needed to possess; qualities Juliet had had, and her own sister, Livia, who was _meant_ for this. Rosaline, though, didn't care much about being lovely.

She sighed as she sat herself at the dressing table, praying this nightmare would be over soon.

 

* * *

 

Pacing along the rosebushes for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes, Benvolio was beginning to get _seriously_ annoyed. Wasn't already having to meet and spend time with the Capulet girl enough of a _torture_ , for her to make it last longer by being late?

"Stop sulking like a child," his uncle barked. "With your reputation, this marriage is the best opportunity you will ever get."

Benvolio took the low blow as it came. For his uncle to consider a Capulet, if only by name for the girl was nothing but a servant in that house, the only option in the foreseeable future... The girl was pretty, Benvolio would not lie about this, but - he'd agreed to marry a maiden, not an _enemy_.

"Why do I even need to get to _know_ her?" Benvolio sulked nonetheless. "We'll be married within days no matter what. There'll be an entire _life_ to get to know her."

At that, Lord Montague gave him a slow, dangerous smile. "You're the one who said you didn't want to take an unwilling girl to bed," the man shrugged. "Talk to her, charm her. _Make_ her willing."

So _this_ was what _he_ was to his family, Benvolio thought; a whore and a whore-whisperer both. What _exactly_ did his uncle expect of him? The good of Verona may rest upon his shoulders, but he was perfectly aware of what people would say if he bedded the Capulet girl so soon after their nuptials - what they would say of _her_ , sweet Rosaline, promised to a life in a convent, turned into a Montague whore.

Clenching his teeth, Benvolio felt his hands ball up into tight fists at his sides. The time when he was young and grateful for his uncle's protection was long gone, and though he couldn't fight him on this, he so wished to. To unleash the fierce anger he felt at being trapped and used - at being made to do the same onto someone else. Rosaline Capulet might be his enemy by blood and by feud, but she had _personally_ never done him any wrong.

Rosaline had _fire_ , and Benvolio admired and dreaded it all at once. She'd spoken against their union, fought her uncle in a way Benvolio hadn't dared; she'd run, part for true love, but mostly for _herself_. Benvolio couldn't help being impressed by that. And she had a _plan_ , somehow.

She was as sweet as she was cunning, and Benvolio knew, deep in his heart, that Rosaline Capulet, soon-to-be Montague, would be the death of him.

The clever girl appeared at last, her hand resting upon her uncle's as she walked towards him, her chin high as her eyes bore into his. She looked soft around the edges where Benvolio knew her to be sharp; her smile was well-trained, polite and subdued, but her deep dark eyes told him Rosaline was nowhere near ready to give up on her freedom.

"Lord Montague," she greeted, her voice nothing like her as she curtsied. Even the gesture felt out of place for the fierce woman Benvolio kept telling himself he wanted nothing to do with.

He took her in for a moment, girly gown and the soft, pinkish hue of her powdered cheeks, and saw Juliet for a fraction of a second. Rosaline was the picture of her deceased cousin, gentle and sweet and docile like Lord Capulet wanted her to be; Rosaline _looked_ the part of his heiress, if her allegiances would ever be anything but her own.

"Lady Rosaline," he replied, bowing in turn before he extended an arm to reach for her hand. Benvolio spotted the surprise in her eyes at the use of her first name. She'd been _Capulet_ or _servant girl_ in his mouth before, but she was to be his _wife_. She let him take her hand, unlike upon their first meeting when she hadn't bothered shaking his hand, and Benvolio pressed a delicate kiss to her knuckles.

He felt her shiver, even if just slightly. Had the Prince ever touched her like that? Was she remembering secret, stolen moments that belonged to the past, another life she was to give up for the sake of the city? Did she resent him? He wasn't any more responsible for their impending wedding than she was, but anger and resentment and guilt were funny things. _He_ had blamed her for their cousins' death, after all. Benvolio deeply regretted it; if anything, Rosaline was the only one who knew exactly what his loss felt like.

Perhaps she felt his apology in his kiss; or perhaps she was willing to be sweet to him, if only for the sake of appearances, for Rosaline gave him a small, beautiful smile. It seemed to please their family greatly as her uncle said: "We should leave the young couple to be more acquainted." Benvolio was even more shocked to see _his_ uncle agreeing.

All of a sudden they were left alone save for Juliet's nurse, their chaperone, and one of Lord Montague's servants. The woman wore her grief in a way none of them had been allowed to, what with the circumstances; she looked at them with a heavy sadness, as if she were about to witness another bloodshed, young lives lost to a family feud so ancient nobody remembered _why_ Montagues and Capulets hated each other.

Benvolio's fingers only tightened around Rosaline's as the thought crossed his mind. She frowned at him, looking like she'd want nothing more than to pry her hand away from his. Benvolio led her to a bench beneath a golden-green canopy of leaves and sat down at the very edge, leaving a respectful distance between them. It seemed to be enough for their chaperones, who hung back, giving them a much needed privacy.

"So, my lady," Benvolio purred, just loud enough to satisfy the curious ears. "What great scheme has crossed that lovely head of yours?"

 

* * *

 

Rosaline's great scheme _wasn't_ as well-outlined as she'd hoped. In fact, it was more of a thread of hope, a wish to find a way out more than a real idea. Nevertheless, she'd been relieved upon seeing Benvolio just as willing as she was to plot _with_ her.

The idea that he might only be _pretending_ did cross her mind for half a heartbeat. What if Lord Montague was trying to prove that the Capulets were untrue? What if he'd promised Benvolio the freedom he so desired? But Rosaline had shaken the thought away as quickly as it'd come; for all his flaws Benvolio seemed to her to be _sincere_.

If they were ever discovered, they would pay _together_ , at least. The idea was a mere comfort, but comforting all the same.

They separated after an hour spent courting beneath the flowers and leaves, both chaperones reporting dutifully to their houses that the young Montague and his soon-to-be bride had been seen exchanging shy glances and smiles, and that fingers had brushed, and a single, white wild rose had been offered as a token of affection and blooming love. Benvolio kissed her palm again, but this time Rosaline was ready and she reacted accordingly, blinking her lashes as she looked away, grateful for the pink powder covering her heating cheeks.

The nurse brought her back to the Capulet palace, all the while looking at her with the eyes of a mother watching her child grow into a woman. Rosaline felt disloyal, lying to a woman who had always been kind to her, caring for Juliet since the first time she'd scooped her in her arms as a baby, but Rosaline felt it was necessary. Even Livia she wasn't sure she could confide in; not _entirely_ , at least. To all it would seem more real if her own sister were to watch her go from refusing to ever marry Benvolio Montague to slowly let herself be seduced by his big, puppy eyes, and his misplaced sense of chivalry. Rosaline couldn't - wouldn't - risk Livia's happiness.

She only hoped her sister would see reason if she ever found out.

 

* * *

 

In the days that followed that first official meeting, Benvolio Montague was seen at the Capulet palace entering via the great front doors, something a Montague had not done in over a _century_. It was said that he'd had a long conversation with Lord Capulet; the older man wanted to make sure that his intentions towards his niece were pure and true, and the two separated in the best of terms. Benvolio was then allowed to court his beloved under the supervision of her nurse, who reported that the young man had the most elegant manners and that her young protégée had acted ever the proper lady. In turn, Rosaline Capulet was seen wandering the marketplace, looking for pearls and ribbons with her sister and other servants. A merchant woman even said that she'd looked positively _glowing_ , a happy bride-to-be.

Despite all this careful planning, unrest was still growing in the city among nobility and villagers alike. Many lords called Montague and Capulet fools for allowing their children to wed, so soon after the tragic deaths of two of their own; some even dared call it a treachery, a cruel farce. The villagers were torn; they were still mourning the dead, and most of them didn't quite dare believing that love had blossomed from the bitter ashes of hatred. Some, of the romantic persuasion, seemed willing to believe in what they could _see_ for themselves.

And that was how, on one bright, fair morning, Benvolio and Rosaline were brought to the royal palace by their uncles. The Prince and the Princess were waiting for them, Escalus' face hard and unreadable. Benvolio felt himself stiffen, tension radiating off of him that he struggled to contain. He might not understand what the Prince and Rosaline _had_ , but they had _something_ , and seeing him look at her like she meant nothing...

Rosaline was a _Capulet_ , but Benvolio felt like no one deserved to be overlooked that way.

"Verona is thirsty for blood and vengeance," Escalus said, skipping all pretenses that this meeting was anything but political. "The sooner your two houses are united, the sooner peace will return."

Despite his better judgment, Benvolio tilted his head just slightly, enough to take Rosaline in. She appeared far more composed than she had the first time Escalus had announced their marriage, staring right at the royals and yet her eyes looked glassy, almost hollow. She was answering Escalus' indifference with her own, listening quietly but showing no emotion at all. Long gone was the desperate passion, the urgency Benvolio had witnessed between the two. Had Rosaline resigned herself to never feel again? Was the perspective of marrying him so _terrible_ to her?

She _was_ a servant girl, after all, Benvolio couldn't help but think bitterly. He may not find a better arrangement, but _neither_ could she. He did not want to spend any more time with her than she did, but he at least felt like he was doing a better job at pretending. Beneath her indifference he could feel the pain, the hurt and the offense - she might fool them all, but _he_ saw her.

"Excuse me, Your Grace," Lord Capulet said, "but as Your Grace knows, there has been an incident at the cathedral and the construction has been delayed once more. It will not be ready to accommodate an event of this importance before months."

"I know," Escalus replied, his tone low and exasperated. "I was thinking of something more immediate. The people _know_ of Rosaline and Benvolio's union, but they need proof, something more tangible than rumors and pretty smiles." At that his eyes wandered to Rosaline, and once again Benvolio felt his fingers curl and ball in fists at his side. For better or worse this woman was to be his wife; he would not tolerate that another man look at her with those accusing eyes, as if Rosaline was the one at fault. _Escalus_ had been the one ordering this madness, he was the reason why he had to marry a woman who despised him and that he disliked just as much.

His fingers flexed, reached as if to close the gap between he and Rosaline, then fell back at his side. He would respect her as his wife, but he didn't _have_ to do any more than that.

"And what is it you're thinking of, Your Grace?" Rosaline asked then, her tone as subdued as her gaze was blank.

It was Princess Isabella who answered, her tone softer than her brother's, but still firm. "A public betrothal ceremony. It would do the city good, to see two young people in love. The time to mourn is gone."

Benvolio cringed at her words. The royals had themselves lost their father not long ago, and here they were, expecting the rest of the world to move on as if nothing had happened. Escalus had taken his father's mantle, just as his uncle was expecting Benvolio to take Romeo's place as his heir. Life went on and the dead remained so, forgotten to the sordid affairs of men.

Benvolio hadn't even had the time to visit his friends' resting place. Nobody ever mentioned Mercutio, his loyal friend who was so much more of a Montague than he ever belonged to the royal family; Benvolio didn't even know what had happened of Tybalt. The spotlight had been shone on Romeo and Juliet, the star-crossed lovers, as it were now on he and Rosaline. Love conquered all, even grief, even death. Benvolio felt sick.

He listened absently to the Princess as she went on, explaining the details of a binding ceremony that would officially make them engaged before God and Verona, as if God had any interest in family feuds and arranged weddings. Rosaline remained quiet through it all, not even a foot away from him but still so far, so distant.

The rulers bid them goodbye; Rosaline curtsied and Benvolio kissed her hand, a well-oiled routine already. She left without a glance at him, and Benvolio was left to wonder who exactly Rosaline Capulet believed she was.

 

* * *

 

Livia was already waiting for her in her bedroom, a hot bath running. Rosaline could have wept in relief.

She hugged her sister tightly, and Livia gasped against her cheek. "Ros," she laughed. "You're strangling me."

"You're the best sister I could ever ask for, do you know that?" Rosaline asked, pressing a kiss to Livia's cheek. She dropped unceremoniously on her bed, and her sister joined her. "It has been a long day."

"The sun hasn't even reached high in the sky yet," Livia commented, patting her sister's hand. "What happened at the palace? What did the Prince want?"

Rosaline let out a heavy sigh. She'd told Livia bits of the truth, just enough for Livia not to become the target of the other servants' gossiping and pressing questions. She'd sworn her to the secrecy of the arranged marriage, but had dropped hints of a possible inclination here and there. _For a Montague, he's not the worst_ , she'd told Livia after their meeting in the gardens. Rosaline still thought it better not to let Livia in her plans to either call off the wedding or work with Benvolio to make it to their own advantage.

She wasn't even sure where Benvolio stood about that anymore.

She'd felt the anger emanating from him, the way his eyes, usually kind and open, had hardened during the meeting at the royal palace. She would need to urge him to be cautious, and learn how to control himself. They could try and plot as much as they wanted, they wouldn't go far with half of an idea and Benvolio unable to get a grip on his emotions. Rosaline didn't have time to waste on a jealous, possessive betrothed.

For surely it was the only reason why Benvolio had looked so angry, Rosaline figured. Like any man, Benvolio didn't appreciate being given another man's leftovers. Rosaline knew that between the two men she was nothing but a piece of land to conquer, Escalus' old flame and Benvolio's new conquest and bride. She only hoped Benvolio would get over himself soon, so that they could try and think of something to get out of this doomed union.

Livia squeezed her hand, and Rosaline looked at her sister with a fond, sad look. Livia couldn't understand this if she tried; Livia was a romantic girl, enamored with the idea of love and peace. In his own way Benvolio was a peacemaker, _too_ ; he'd tried to stop Romeo and Tybalt from fighting, been opposed to Romeo and Juliet's wedding, knowing it'd only bring devastation in its wake. Livia and Benvolio would be a better match than she and the young Montague could ever. Yet Rosaline could never wish this on her sister; an arranged marriage wasn't what Livia desired. She lived for love, and deserved it more than any other person Rosaline knew. It was her biggest wish to take Livia with her as she established herself as lady of her own house, and give her the chance to find true love.

"I have to stand before all of Verona and promise that I'll marry a Montague," she sighed, not bothering to hide her simmering anger. "The Prince wants a public betrothal, to appease the unrest."

Livia seemed to consider the news for a moment, but her hand never left Rosaline's. "People are whispering, Ros. Nobody understands what happened with Juliet and Romeo, people are still talking of _murder_. Seeing you and Benvolio, happy together...it's not that much of a bad idea, if I'm honest."

And honest Rosaline knew Livia was; her sister was sincere to a fault. Rosaline could almost understand her point, almost see why Escalus had made such a radical choice. The first alliance between Capulet and Montague had ended in loss and grief; another marriage would cleanse the blood thirst the city craved, proving that love could end a war two families had fought for too long.

Why it had to be _her_ , though, Rosaline could never accept.

"I know this is not... _ideal_ for you," Livia said tentatively, "but for what it's worth, this Benvolio Montague seems to me a kind man."

"He's a skirt-chaser," Rosaline replied heatedly, brusquely. "There isn't a woman in Verona he hasn't bedded, for the exception of us Capulets."

Rosaline didn't know why that bothered her so much. Benvolio could very well sleep with whoever he wanted, he was to be her husband on nothing but paper. Still it _did_ bother her; sharing the bed of a man who'd been under so many sheets before made her feel every bit the harlot Escalus had threatened to turn her into.

"Now, that isn't fair, Rosaline," Livia said, her tone reproachful. "He's been nothing but a gentleman _to you_."

Livia hadn't been there when Benvolio had called her a _harpy_ , nor when he'd blamed her for Romeo's death. All Livia could see was the well-rehearsed pretense Benvolio had pulled for her family, the picture perfect of a fine young man courting his lady with flowers and poetry.

 _But_ Livia was _also_ right, as much as it chagrined Rosaline to admit it. She looked over at the vase standing on the dressing table, filled with the flowers Benvolio had brought her two mere days ago. Gardenias and wild roses and camellias, pretty colors, pretty flowers that didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, but Rosaline _liked_ pretty things, too. Juliet's nurse had appreciated the meaning behind each; she'd told Rosaline how they meant affection, love, and sincerity. She'd heard a servant from the Montague house say that Benvolio had composed the bouquet himself, that he was learned in the beautiful arts of nature. Rosaline didn't know what to do with this piece of information; it didn't reconcile well with the picture she'd painted of Benvolio in her head. A man of sin like him, alcohol and whores, could not know anything about flowers and their secret message.

Could he?

She sank into the bath Livia had filled for her gratefully and dipped her head beneath the water, clearing her head of her future husband for a moment.

 

* * *

 

The vows were short, Escalus doing most of the talking. Benvolio and Rosaline were asked to join hands, and they did; Escalus bound them before God and Verona, and spoke about the power of love. They were asked to promise themselves to one another, and they did, and that was it. Benvolio was relieved they were not instructed to kiss before the crowd gathered in the piazza.

 _That_ would come on their wedding day soon enough.

Escalus talked some more, but Benvolio didn't listen. Having to stand there as the Prince talked about love when he'd slammed the door on it himself, selling off Rosaline to this union, felt like the cruelest part of this whole masquerade. Rosaline played the part of the shy maiden, and it fell upon him to smile and look happy for the both of them. For Verona.

When the arrow burned its way to the center of the piazza, it _wasn't_ the sake of Verona Benvolio had in mind. It wasn't even his own. He tugged at Rosaline's hand, yanking her to him when she didn't immediately react to the attack. If she said anything, Benvolio didn't hear it; his ears were buzzing with the screams of the people around them, his eyes were blurred by the smoke, but the one thing he was sure of was the feel of Rosaline's hand in his and he felt that as long as he was holding onto her, nothing bad could happen.

Her fingers tightened around his, and Benvolio watched as panic began to creep up in her eyes. Rosaline's head snapped around, desperately searching for her sister. He spotted Livia first and tried to reach for her, to call out her name, but the hysterical crowd between them blocked their path. By staying there they were making themselves easy target - they _had_ to move.

"Rosaline," he spoke her name, soft but firm, as if talking to a child. She looked around frantically, anywhere but at his face. "Rosaline," he said, louder, and tugged at her hand, enough to wrap his arm around her back and guide her along. "We have to move. _Now_."

Rosaline looked up at him at last, her dark eyes wide with terror, not for herself he knew, but for her sister. "My sister," she said, low and torn, and tried to resist Benvolio's grip on her as he marched her out to safety.

"I'll get Livia," Benvolio swore, "but I need to get you safe first. I _will_ come back for her. Do you hear me?" The longer they stayed, the more risks they were taking - he and Rosaline and Livia, if he were to go find her. He _needed_ Rosaline to understand him, to trust him and let him get her to safety so he could help her sister.

Rosaline nodded her head at last, her features caught between incomprehension and fear. But her eyes - they were open and earnest, more than Benvolio had ever seen. Rosaline _trusted_ him.

She huddled closer to him; let him shield her with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Benvolio had never imagined her to be the kind of woman to let anyone else care for her; her trust was such a heavy thing to carry.

Benvolio looked around. Where to now?

 

* * *

 

Benvolio Montague was many things. He was mostly good-natured, and enjoyed life to its fullest. He seemed decent enough, all things considered, well-mannered and kind and calm. He _definitely_ wasn't the worst of his clan.

He also had saved her sister's life, and for that Rosaline knew she would be forever in his debt.

She watched him as he stood with both their uncles, talking in hushed tones as she and Livia were sipping from their hot drinks. Livia looked pale, still shaken from the explosion at the piazza; Rosaline herself was feeling a little sick to her stomach and so, _so_ cold, as if she would never feel warm again. Something rotten and dark and dangerous was spreading across the city; somebody out there was relishing in terrorizing Verona and fueling the feud between their two families.

But amidst the darkness Benvolio had stood tall and strong and safe. He'd been clear-headed when she'd let her emotions overwhelm her; he'd protected her when her demise could have meant freedom for him. Rosaline didn't _understand_ why; maybe it was instinct, Benvolio's first answer to a crisis, to try and help and protect.

As if feeling her gaze on him, Benvolio lifted his head to her. Their eyes met, and for an instant Rosaline _forgot_ that he was a Montague.

Here stood the man who had saved both her and her sister's lives.

Here stood the man who would soon become her husband.

Here stood the man who hated their situation as much as she did, but who had done more for her than Escalus ever had.

Rosaline tried to smile at him, to _give_ him something - a token of her gratitude, a deserved truce. But her throat felt hoarse, her tongue dry in her mouth; her lips were chapped and pressed tight, trying to keep her emotion in. Twice now Benvolio had come to her help and saved her life. Twice now in so little time had Rosaline faced death, and he'd been her savior. Who would have thought a Capulet would ever owe their life to a Montague?

He bowed his head to her and Livia as he made to turn and leave, but Rosaline rose at last, her fingers curling around the edge of the table as if to anchor herself. Her uncle looked at her, waiting for her to say something, but nothing came. She wouldn't cry in front of any of them but her eyes were prickling with hot tears threatening to fall.

Everything had just been _a lot_ lately. Nearly dying, _again_ , nearly losing Livia so soon after Juliet...

"This has been a long day for everyone," Lord Capulet said, taking in her anguished face. "Perhaps we ought to give the young people a moment?" he asked, turning to Lord Montague.

If her uncle sounded genuine, Benvolio's looked completely unaffected by the events. Did Lord Montague not realize yet that had his nephew died, he would have found himself without an heir?

He nodded his head shortly though, regal, as if he were ever so gracious for allowing them to _feel_. "I'll be expecting my nephew home within an hour," he told Lord Capulet. "There is still much to do." He paused, then turned to Benvolio. Their gazes locked in silent understanding before the older man took his leave.

Benvolio extended a hand toward the direction his uncle had just taken, out in the patio. Rosaline took the lead, leaving her uncle and sister in the kitchens, Livia's eyes trained on her. Her uncle seemed too taken aback to give her any instructions.

Rosaline still didn't know what to say. Words seemed futile, compared to the depth of Benvolio's actions. She leaned against the terrace rail, staring out at the sky, pink and purple hues melting in the blues as the sun slowly sank. This morning she'd been getting ready for the ceremony; this afternoon they'd been the target of another attack against both their houses. As evening was slowly settling down, Rosaline wondered what surprises the day could still bring.

She felt Benvolio at her back more than she heard him move. He was standing close, perhaps closer than her chaperone would allow, but his presence, his steadiness, were welcome for once. He was giving her a choice: talk, and he would stay; say nothing, and he would go away and forget that moment of vulnerability, the sight of her standing on trembling legs, her fingers seeking something to hold onto.

"You saved my sister," was all Rosaline managed to say.

Benvolio sighed to himself, his warm breath fanning against the side of her neck. "You say it as if it were a bad thing," he said in a low chuckle.

"Of course not," Rosaline shook her head. "It's just..." She paused, closing her eyes for just a second. _Thank you_ was on the tip of her tongue, but the two little words never came out. Rosaline couldn't help but wonder what was wrong with her. Slowly she pushed off the rail and turned around, only to find Benvolio standing _much_ closer than she'd imagined. He was not being flirtatious at all, though; his stance was defensive, one arm bent behind his back, his free hand looming over the hilt of his sword. "I just didn't know you even knew my sister's name," she said simply.

At that, Benvolio grinned, and she knew then why women fell so easily for him. He shared his cousin's easy grace in the way he carried himself, in the carefreeness of his smile when his uncle wasn't towering over him. "I plead guilty of listening to you sometimes, Capulet," he teased, and the use of her family name sounded more like him, _like them_. "I told you I did know some things."

Rosaline rolled her eyes. "Will you ever let that go?" she asked, perfectly knowing he would not.

Benvolio played along, the tension of the day slowly coming off. He was still at the ready, focused both on their surroundings and _her,_ but he looked more husband than soldier. Even a _friend_ , perhaps. "I promised your uncle I would always be true, my beloved. I am afraid I will indeed _never_ let this go."

Rosaline snorted, so unladylike that Benvolio laughed in earnest in turn. For once Rosaline didn't care about whether it was right or wrong of her to laugh with a Montague; after the hellish day they'd just had, it just felt good to be and let be.

Benvolio sobered up before her. His eyes, so clear compared to hers, bore an honesty Rosaline found difficult to face. "Will you be okay?" he asked softly, a mere whisperer in the evening breeze.

"I'm fine," was Rosaline's immediate, impulsive answer. She _was_ ; or she would be. Benvolio didn't challenge her, and for that she felt grateful, too. If he probed too much Rosaline wasn't certain she would find it in her to keep pretending. As thankful as she was, she wasn't ready to let Benvolio Montague of all people comfort her.

Again, she and Benvolio seemed to understand each other without speaking. He'd given her the opportunity to talk if she needed; she'd made the choice to reign her emotions in. Benvolio accepted it, and without pressing any further, he bowed his head and reached for her hand. There was no one to see them, but Rosaline let him. His eyes never left hers as he pressed a soft kiss to her palm, and the feel of his lips on her skin stayed with her longer than Rosaline cared to admit.

"Send word if you need anything," he did say as he finally departed. "After today's events, I expect the Prince will give us a few days to rest before we're expected to plan Verona's biggest wedding in decades."

 

* * *

 

The Prince, in fact, did _not_.

With the growing unrest and assorted pile of bodies in the streets, Capulets and Montagues and nobodies alike, Escalus showed even stronger conviction that this marriage was a necessity that prevailed above all things. Rosaline's state of silent shock after the assault during the ceremony was shoved aside, the Prince arguing again that time was of the essence and that the sooner she and Benvolio would be married, the better. The unfinished Capulet cathedral was also taken out of the equation. The wedding _would_ take place before the end of the week, by royal decree.

There was _no_ getting out of it, both Rosaline and Benvolio were painfully aware. With no excuse, no secret card to play to change Escalus' mind, they both stood at the altar before the priest and all of Verona on Sunday morning. They vowed to love and cherish one another, to perpetuate the civic virtues of marriage by uniting their houses and making a family of their own, with God as their witness and all of Verona.

When the priest asked if anyone was opposed to this wedding, Benvolio looked at Rosaline, _his bride_ , looking as happy and beautiful as any bride he'd ever seen. Only the light shaking of her fingers as he held her hand reminded him that she was _not_. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, hoping against all hope that she'd understand they were in this together. At the end of the ceremony they would be husband and wife; her sorrows would be his, and his woes hers - for better _and_ worse.

They were asked to say _I do_ , and Rosaline's voice was firmer than either of them had expected. They were asked to kiss, and Benvolio's lips were just as soft as they'd been on the skin of her palm, a gentle pressure that lasted but a second.

They turned to face the church, their families sitting at the front rows. "May I present you Lord Benvolio and Lady Rosaline Montague," the priest proclaimed, and this time it was Rosaline who squeezed his hand tighter, her fingers impossibly tangled with his.

 _What now?_ her eyes seemed to ask.

But that was a question neither of them had an answer for.

 

* * *

 

_to be continued_

 

  


	2. so brave and quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why, Lady Montague," he said, and Rosaline did not flinch at the name as she'd imagined she would, "Is this a smile I see upon your face? Surely I must be deep in sleep and dreaming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got out of hand and turned into a 3-part, oops #sorrynotsorry

The festivities lasted _forever_.

Or, _well_ , that was how it felt like to Rosaline whose entire face started to hurt sometime around the evening, after hours of smiling and playing the blissful bride. She had never realized how big of a city Verona was - not until the wedding of the century had brought upon _hundreds_ of guests. The ceremony at the church had been followed by a reception and hours of guests parading to the high table to _see_ them and offer their well-wishes and congratulations, even some advice on how to be a good lady wife, and skeptical glares from some of the nobles and wealthy merchants who still doubted the very idea of a union between a Capulet and a Montague.

Rosaline, who had never been the object of such attention, felt like she was _suffocating_.

"Something seems to be troubling you, my beloved," Benvolio said softly, the caress in his words mirroring that of his fingers as they squeezed hers slightly as he led her around the ballroom. "Our guests will believe me the worst husband, what with your sorrowed face."

"'Tis not sorrow but exhaustion, husband," Rosaline answered absently, ducking her head away from his piercing, attentive gaze. She needed a minute to clear her head and conjure the smile she'd adorned all day long back to her face, a feat she would not be able to perform with Benvolio's gentle probing. He was a much better actor than she was; his eyes were bright, his lips set into a gracious, half-dazed smile, the picture of youth's elation. It was a challenge in and out of itself to match him.

Benvolio started to say something else, then stopped. Out of the corner of her eye Rosaline saw him chew on his bottom lip as if he were looking for the right words to say, to comfort. _Why_ , Rosaline still did not understand. Surely it was kind of him to try and be a good husband, forced as they were to start a life together, but his goodness made her _bitter_ somehow; made her feel cruel, for not reciprocating with as much genuine effort.

His lip became redder under his teeth's attention, more plump, and Rosaline felt a shiver dance along her spine.

Together they kept pacing the ballroom, stopping every now and then to thank their guests for their attendance and receiving more congratulations in turn. Yet Benvolio always seemed to steer clear of the royal family, and Rosaline did not dare believe it was for her sake but still she felt a rush of gratitude for her husband - for a man of so little virtue, God had surely made him _sweet_.

"I have not seen Livia in a while," Benvolio commented later. "Perhaps she has found a good lord to dance her through the night?"

Rosaline's brow widened in surprise; she had not realized that her husband's attention wasn't solely focused on _her_. She herself had not seen her sister since supper. "I hope so, my lord," Rosaline answered, though she felt not as optimistic as Benvolio. She wouldn't put it past her aunt to have sent Livia to the kitchens, reminding the both of them that her younger sister was _still_ but a servant to Lady Capulet, even on Rosaline's wedding day.

Benvolio saw right through her anguish immediately. "You seem to fear otherwise. Speak your mind, my lady."

Shaking her head, she gave him a small, sort of nothing smile. "I am but exhausted, I fear my thoughts are not suited to this joyous night," Rosaline tried to say as smoothly as she could. She did not wish to argue with Benvolio and bring unwanted attention to them. Their union was as fragile and untested as it ever would be on the very night of their nuptials. If Benvolio's protectiveness was as sincere as Rosaline believed, she feared he might say or do something that would only compromise Livia even more. "Let us not speak of this any longer," she pleaded.

Benvolio studied her face, half curious, half concerned. In a not-so-rare, yet surprisingly sweet gesture he brought her hand to his lips and brushed a light kiss upon her skin. It felt familiar and warm and domestic in a way no thing was _supposed_ to feel between a Montague and a Capulet, Montague now she might be. "As you wish, Rosaline," Benvolio purred, his low tone dripping honey among the syllables of her name. "Let us not speak," he echoed, his eyes boring into hers as he tugged slightly at her hand, bringing her closer. "It is about time I do my duty as a husband and invite my lady wife for a dance."

Rosaline felt heat reach her cheeks and then her whole face flush, from Benvolio's touch or tone or invitation she knew not but she prayed he would not see or comment on. She had plenty of time to deny him; his eyes never left hers as he bowed slightly, an arm crooked behind his back as he led her to the center of the ballroom. His movements were infinitely slow, and reminded Rosaline of her father hunting in the woods, still and stealthy and gracious all at once. Benvolio took her other hand and drew his palm flat against hers, and how had she never appreciated how _intimate_ an art dancing was? How did people stand so close, breathing in each other's air, without setting themselves aflame?

Though she had time, and knew she could and that Benvolio would do as she asked, Rosaline suddenly found herself not wishing to deny him, _nor_ herself. Dancing had always been a joy to her, back to the days when she lived with her parents and considered the Prince and the Princess her friends. Rosaline had liked, no, _loved_ balls and music and all these frivolous things she had to forget as soon as she'd come to live with her uncle. Despite herself, Rosaline felt her lips twitch up in a smile.

Meeting his eyes, she saw Benvolio _beaming_. "Why, Lady Montague," he said, and Rosaline did not flinch at the name as she'd imagined she would, "Is this a smile I see upon your face? Surely I must be deep in sleep and dreaming."

Rosaline's eyes widened for all but a second as she realized her husband was _flirting_ with her. The realization brought more heat to her cheeks, if only for it brought another that left Rosaline stunned: that she was amused, even a bit _charmed_ by Benvolio's antics. Perhaps he had chosen the best path into this life of theirs: he who had looked disgusted at the prospect of marrying her, had finally come around to proving himself to be kind and seemingly at peace with their union, if not truly enamored as he appeared to be for others to see.

Benvolio circled slowly around her, his fingers loose as they held hers, and once more Rosaline could not help but think of a hunter watching out for his prey. Was there ever a story about the doe watching out, _too_ , she wondered, not in terror but interest, perhaps even fascination? For she felt a pull towards him that defied sense and reason. He was a Montague, and his family had done hers wrong, taken what she cherished most of all...but so had hers, and she was a Montague too now, by name and by God. Surely she ought to feel _something_ for her husband, and though her heart and her head were conflicted about the wide range of emotions she could not name or comprehend, Rosaline could not pretend for the life of her that she could be indifferent.

Allowing her smile to grow, Rosaline tilted her head ever so slightly, looking at Benvolio from under her lashes. "Is it so, Lord Montague? Surely you must dream of greater things."

"What greater thing could a husband wish for than to see his wife smiling, though?" Benvolio answered smoothly, looking so, _so_ proud of himself as Rosaline visibly fought herself to hold his gaze. "But I can only imagine what a bright, spirited mind like yours could dream of."

He looked at her as if he were genuinely interested in knowing what her heart desired. Perhaps it was his proximity, the clean scent of soap and musk and something else, definitely _male_ , definitely _Benvolio_ , that had Rosaline, for once, not seeing why it would be so bad to tell him so. "I have but simple dreams, my lord. Build a home of my own somewhere, tend to a garden, and read. And for my sister to be happy."

Benvolio blinked slowly, and Rosaline became a little fixated on the movement, on the way his lashes brushed against his cheeks. The look he gave her was nothing she'd grown accustomed to: there was no amusement, no enmity, no seduction in his gaze. There was something in the hazel and the green and the blue that was as difficult to describe as the color of his eyes. "You are as wise as you are fair, sweet wife," he said, something close to awe laced in his voice as the music started to slow, coming to an end. 

" _Benvolio_ ," Rosaline heard herself utter his name, perhaps for the first time. She swallowed around it, tasting it, searching for her words. What had she meant to tell him? How could his name slip past her lips without her meaning to?

The music stopped, final, and Rosaline found herself wishing it had not. For during one dance she had forgotten about the guests surrounding them, her family's expectations, her duty to them, to Livia, and Verona. For one dance she'd felt like she'd gotten to know Benvolio for who he _was_ , and not who she expected to see.

For one dance Rosaline felt like she had glimpsed in her husband what Juliet, her sweet, beloved cousin had once seen in her Romeo.

And, surely it was madness, but what Rosaline had glimpsed she wanted to see _more_ of.

As Benvolio pulled away, it was Rosaline who longed for more and reached for it this time, her fingers catching the hem of his sleeve and holding him to her. Rosaline did not easily ask for anything; did not easily indulge in things, though cherished they may be - but surely a bride deserved to on her wedding night?

"One more dance, perhaps?"

 

* * *

 

His wife, given the chance, was as happy a bride as there could be.

After two dances became three, Benvolio started to feel a bit light-headed - more from her sight than from the sweetened wine. Rosaline's giddiness was contagious, and seeing her so lively, so _free_ despite their circumstances, warmed his heart. He'd meant it when he'd called her sweet and fair, a man would have to be blind not to see it - but with her cheeks flushed and lost curls bouncing free about her face, the gleam in her eyes, the genuine tilt of her lips in a beaming smile, she was a sight to see, his lady.

Which was why Benvolio _hated_ to be the one to bring her down. But as the evening drew into the night, Benvolio became more aware of their surroundings. Guests began to scatter and bid goodnight; her sister had not returned from wherever she'd been since he'd last seen her at their table at supper; and soon it would be time to head out for their new home, a mansion his uncle had offered them as a wedding gift.

Soon, he would be expected to carry her over the threshold and up to _their_ bedroom. To their _bed_. Benvolio assumed his uncle would stand at the end of it, waiting for an heir; the very thought made him want to empty a bottle of wine in one gulp.

"I can't feel my feet anymore," Rosaline laughed as she let him lead her to a bench, her eyes still gleaming but slowly starting to droop

"Neither can I," Benvolio said, "what with you stepping on them all the time, sweet wife."

Rosaline's mouth widened to form a perfectly-shaped _oh._ "I did no such thing, husband!" she replied, looking so offended it made Benvolio grin. Rosaline was a little tipsy, he figured, but carefreeness looked good on her. He found himself hoping she wouldn't hate him too much once she sobered up.

Sobriety found them both quickly after, as both their uncles walked towards them with purpose. Lady Capulet, luckily, was nowhere to be seen - Benvolio had gathered enough to understand that Rosaline and her aunt shared an animosity that rivaled his uncle's and his. "Nephew," Lord Montague said as he clasped his hand around Benvolio's shoulder with much vigor, and then bowed his head to Rosaline. "Sweet Rosaline."

"It is time, my niece," Lord Capulet said, his voice filled with a concern that Benvolio had not expected the older man to feel. Benvolio didn't doubt that Lord Capulet cared for his niece, somehow; but his caring only went as far as the money it could bring him.

Rosaline nodded her head and curtsied, suddenly doing her best to avert his eyes. The reprieve their dancing had granted them had faded, and Benvolio could see it was dawning on her now, the depths of what becoming Lady Montague meant: leaving the Capulet palace, leaving her sister there, leaving everything she was behind to become someone else. Benvolio didn't quite remember his parents; he had been but a little boy when they'd died and his uncle had taken him in, but Rosaline - she had memories of being someone else, of wishing for something else. She and her sister were as close as he'd been to Romeo; Rosaline's duty was to Livia, same as he'd always felt protective and responsible for his younger cousin.

They had not discussed this; in truth, he and Rosaline had not had a lot to say about their marriage. His uncle had found them a house; Lord Capulet had commissioned a beautiful dress; the wine came from both lords' vineyards. The Prince had bound their hands, and the priest had asked them to say _I do_ , and now their uncles were ready to put them in a carriage to their house and marital bed - what it meant for he and his bride, how they were expected to fare, was never a subject worthy of interest.

"Before we go, can I inquire where Lady Livia is, my lord?" Benvolio asked, just this side of coy that made him look innocent. At his words Rosaline's head snapped up, but he went on. "I could not imagine taking my wife to our new home without letting them say goodbye and have Lady Livia promise to visit us soon. It would be my great honor to place both your nieces under my protection, Lord Capulet."

Rosaline's hand tensed upon his, but Benvolio's focus was on her uncle. The older man seemed not to know how to respond; Benvolio knew pretty well that Livia was no lady in that house, that Lady Capulet would surely not grant her permission to come at her own convenience or live permanently with them. But, at least, he would try.

It was his uncle who answered. "As generous an offer as this is, nephew," he said, regal as always though his fingers tightened around Benvolio's shoulder, "you must remember to be kind. Lord Capulet is already losing one child to this marriage. Surely it would cost he and Lady Capulet a lot of grief to watch both their girls leave at once."

Lord Capulet didn't _look_ like a grieving man, but confusion swept across his features before he nodded his head. "My wife is so very much attached to Livia," he admitted. He turned to Rosaline then, something Benvolio didn't dare do in that moment for fear of what he could see in her eyes. Enemies as their families might have been, still were, he was not cruel and did not wish to see the pain their uncles' dismissal had put there. "But...I think Lady Giuliana _will_ understand the bond between two sisters is sacred and consent to visits," Lord Capulet finished.

Benvolio didn't quite believe his ears. He felt Rosaline's fingers slip from his as she took a step to her uncle and looked about to clasp his hands in hers, but refrained herself at the last moment, curtsying. "Thank you, uncle," was all she said, though Benvolio could feel the emotion curl up in her mouth. She turned to him then, and the emotion was still there, a gratitude never felt between a Capulet and a Montague before. Perhaps this was what the Prince had hoped and willed to happen, by making them become _one_. "Shall we go say goodbye then, my lord?" Rosaline asked him, soft, a little vulnerable.

Benvolio was about to say _yes_ when his uncle cut him off. "You go ahead, Lady Montague," he said with a smile. "I must speak to your lord husband before he takes you home."

Rosaline started to frown and turned to him as if expecting confirmation or approval perhaps, but Benvolio gave her what he hoped to be a reassuring smile. "You should go, Rosaline, and wish my best to your sister. I'll meet you at the carriage."

Rosaline still looked uneasy to him but complied, and off she went with her uncle. All the while his had not let go of his shoulder, and Benvolio started to lose any sensation in his flesh. "You are going at great lengths to make your wife happy. This is most clever of you, nephew. A happy wife is a docile wife," Lord Montague said in a low voice. "But let me be very clear with you," he went on, and his whisper turned into an almost _threat_. "The next mouth I will feed will be that of your _son_ , not that servant sister of hers. Is that understood?"

Something hurled in Benvolio's stomach, anger and spite he did not believe himself capable to feel towards his uncle, no matter how angry and spiteful Lord Montague could have been with him. _He_ had called Rosaline a servant girl; he had teased her about it, not mean but not pleasant either - but she was his wife now, bound to him and to his house. Insulting her was insulting his own name, his own blood. He would _not_ allow his uncle to disrespect her so. "Livia is as much a lady as Rosaline is, uncle," he said carefully. "That son you speak of will not be Rosaline's priority as long as she frets for her sister's fate."

His uncle gave a cruel laugh. "I was not aware that your wife already had you wrapped around her little finger, Benvolio. And they called Juliet a harlot when here you are begging for her cousin's affection." Lord Montague shook his head. "Go on, then. Go be a good husband. See if that gets you anywhere as far as money always has with your whores."

"She is my _wife_ ," Benvolio snarled through gritted teeth. "I'll do right by her. This is how you've raised me, uncle."

Something flickered in his uncle's eyes. His uncle _had_ raised him well, Benvolio supposed; perhaps not with as much love as he'd given his own son, but he'd fed and bathed and cared for him, taught him right from wrong, and to never back down. Today would not be the day he'd start to. "Then I can only hope your fair Rosaline has been raised just as well, and will do right by you. Giving you an heir is her _duty_ as a wife."

His words sounded final, and Benvolio understood he was dismissed. He went on to find Rosaline still hugging Livia, his uncle following silently at his back. He gave Livia's hand a kiss and the younger Capulet beamed at him, thanked him with a profusion of _my lord_ and compliments Benvolio did not feel he deserved. Lord Capulet then touched Rosaline's arm and that was it; the sisters were separated, and he and Rosaline were marched to their carriage. Benvolio helped her in, and both their uncles watched them, expectant, before his uncle tapped one of the horses' flank and off they went into the night.

Rosaline was silent for the first few minutes, her eyes cast downwards on her lap, her fingers a nervous tangle; Benvolio had to resist the urge to cover them with his own. She was exhausted and anxious, and he wished not to aggravate her.

Outside the night was warm, the stars shining in the clear sky - Benvolio found himself riveted at the sight. He'd spent so many nights lying on the grass with Romeo when they were young, staring at the stars, wondering what Fate had written upon them. On those nights they had not cared about the Montague name; they were cousins, _brothers_ even, and where Romeo would go, he'd follow. Could have the stars predicted Romeo's ending would be so violent, as his pleasure and love had been? Did the stars know he, Benvolio, would have to take his place when they called his cousin back to them?

He was distracted from his thoughts by the delicate press of lips upon his cheek. His head snapped to Rosaline who, though she had retreated a little, still sat very close to him. Her hand pressed to her mouth and her nose wrinkled as if she'd been stung a little by the rough scruff of his beard. "Why, my lady. What was that for?" he asked, thunderstruck.

Softly lit by the glowing stars, Benvolio spotted the faintest hint of pink flushing Rosaline's cheeks. His skin felt warm, too, where she'd kissed him. "You have been most kind with Livia," she said softly, gratitude still making her voice tremble a bit. "No one has treated her as fairly as you have tonight in a long time. You made her feel like a lady, like she was _worthy_. 'Tis a kindness I will not forget."

Benvolio shook his head. "I did not do it to gain anything in return, Rosaline." He wanted her to _know_ this. As calculating as their uncles were, Benvolio felt like they could at least be true to one another.

"I know," Rosaline surprised him. "Nevertheless it was most gracious of you to offer that she live with us. I would have not dared beg this of you."

"You needn't have, my lady," Benvolio assured her, and following his instinct, clasped her hands in his. "She is your sister. She is all that you have. It'd be remiss of me not to try and make your new life as comfortable as I can."

Rosaline studied him, her dark eyes almost gleaming under the moonlight. Then her gaze fell to their linked hands and stayed there as she spoke her next words. "This is a kindness I did not expect."

"From a _Montague_?" Benvolio tried to tease, though he felt he was partly right. "Montague I may be, I'd like to be a good husband first and foremost."

Her thumb stroked his palm absently, and Benvolio went very still, warmth spreading over him. "That, Benvolio," she spoke his name again with almost fondness, he never wanted anyone else to say his name, "I have no doubt of."

 

* * *

 

The servants and maids were waiting for them upon their arrival.

Among them stood Juliet's nurse, now hers, and a few maids Rosaline recognized from House Capulet. Most of the guards were Montagues, though; perhaps her uncle had not thought it important to spare guards for her protection as he had another heir in Livia.

The carriage stopped at the end of the alley leading to the front doors. Rosaline had never been there before; she knew Benvolio had with his uncle as Lord Montague had bought it for them, but what with the preparations for the wedding Rosaline had not had the opportunity to come and see for herself. In the dark all she could see was that the mansion, though not as grand as the Capulet palace, still felt big and slightly ominous, though she tried to shake off the feeling. The gardens were vast and bushy, filled with roses, dahlias and lavender whose perfume laced sweetly with the night breeze. Candles had been lit and disposed along the stone alley, casting a soft glow leading to the doors that made Rosaline feel safer, somehow.

Benvolio stepped out of the carriage first and extended a hand to help her out. Standing before their new home with her hand clasped in his, Rosaline started to feel trepidation overwhelm her. Her legs trembled, and she wondered how she would make it to the front door.

Benvolio was looking at her, his head tilted to the side and his brow furrowed as if he were trying to solve a problem. "What is it, my lord?" Rosaline asked, feeling apprehensive under his scrutinizing gaze.

His free hand came up as he scratched the back of his neck. Was he _nervous_ , too, then? "'Tis tradition to carry the bride over the threshold of the door, my lady," he explained, all but sheepish. "I suppose I was simply - trying to figure out how to do such a thing, what with the dozen skirts you have under that gown."

Rosaline couldn't help but chuckle and roll her eyes a little, relief sweeping over her. From afar they must have looked a pair, she thought, a giggling bride and her charming husband making her laugh as if he were still courting her for her favors. Surely it would make a good impression on their household and sell them to the idea that their lord and mistress were very much in love. That it'd come naturally to them instead of being pretenses, made Rosaline breathe a little easier, too. Lying and scheming and pretending were not her forte, nor did they seem to be her husband's.

Letting go of his hand, Rosaline nervously moved her own around her frame, trying to smooth the fabric of her wedding gown - it _was_ a voluminous thing of lace and silk. "Well then, husband. 'Tis tradition so just do it," she let out in a breathy sigh.

He was a sight to see, her clammy-handed, nervous husband, Rosaline thought as she watched him try to find a way to carry her without _touching_ her. If not for the seductive ways she had witnessed him display herself, Rosaline could have doubted the stories she'd heard about him. For surely this could not be Benvolio Montague, a ladies' man known all across Verona for his nightly adventures of debauchery, who stood here hesitant as his hand finally curled around her waist and he bent enough to cup his other arm under her knees.

All of a sudden Rosaline was swept off the ground, and she let out a little shriek as she wrapped her arms around Benvolio's neck. Benvolio laughed, his breath tickling her cheeks as his face was so close to hers now, close as he'd been that morning at the church when he'd leaned in and kissed her. Rosaline shook her head, willing the memory to go away, but she could still feel his lips on her. Turning her head, she stared resolutely ahead, facing away from her husband's pretty eyes.

She did not know how much of it was tradition. She'd imagined that husbands only carried their brides over the threshold, not all the way up the alley leading to their homes, but the feeling was nice nonetheless. Benvolio carried her like she weighed nothing at all and she admired his strength, the way she felt his muscles flex at the effort, how solid and firm his chest was. Fair and sweet he'd called her, but her husband _was_ just as charming and handsome; the thought crossed her mind before Rosaline could prevent it and left her pleasantly flustered.

The feel of his embrace still wrapped around her as he delicately set her on her feet inside their new home. Rosaline barely had time to say anything or even gush at her surroundings before maids were fussing around her and her nurse took her hand, separating her from Benvolio as she marched her to the stairs. She took a last look at him and saw not only her husband but the _lord_ , too, as Benvolio gave orders to the guards and instructions to the servants as if he'd been master of his own house forever.

She followed the maids quietly, not knowing where she was going. They passed doors in the corridors she did not bother asking where they led to for she knew that she'd visit the house first thing in the morning, get acquainted with the mansion that was going to be her home from now on, the household she was mistress to. Finally they reached a bathroom and Rosaline let them take care of her in a way no one had in years.

A maid whose name she found out was Alessandra settled to work on her hair, freeing her curls from the tight updo pearly pins had stuck them into. Her hands were as soft as she was careful, and she worked silently on the knots in her hair. Rosaline wished they would all talk; yet her incentives were met with polite smiles and bows and a litany of _my lady_ that made her feel a stranger in her own body. She had been raised a lady, but lady she had no longer been under her uncle and aunt's roof, and lady she no longer knew how to be. Another maid started running a bath and Rosaline tried to protest, say she was so exhausted already she feared she would fall asleep in it, but the maid only smiled at her and said that her nurse had given them orders to make sure their new mistress would be shiny as new for her wedding night.

Though Rosaline knew the young maid was not at fault, she felt tension settle heavy on her shoulders at her words. She had felt that her nurse was someone she could rely on, an _ally_ ; surely she did not mean...her nurse _had_ to understand that she barely knew her husband. Would she press her to accomplish her marital duties like their uncles had? Suddenly the golden band on Rosaline's left hand felt too tight, when she had not paid any particular attention to it until now.

The maids honored their promise, for after what felt like an hour in the bathroom Rosaline felt soft as a babe, her skin glowing and smelling of rich scents, her hair falling down in its natural curls down her back. The gown they'd dressed her in was ivory white, the fabric so soft against her skin Rosaline felt like she was wearing nothing and wondered briefly if she would feel any more bashful than she already did were it the case. The maids all bowed and bid her goodnight, and as they exited the room her nurse came back in only to guide her to the master bedroom.

The older woman's hands felt clammy as they closed around Rosaline's hands, or perhaps it was her own skin that was slick with her growing uneasy feeling, her flesh burning from within. Rosaline believed herself to be brave; but sitting here in the bedroom she was to share with her husband, a man she told herself she had to hate on _principle_ but mostly a man she barely knew, brought waves of discomfort and dread.

"Sweet Rosaline," the nurse spoke her name, soft, concern and comfort laced in her gentle tone. "'Tis a night of most importance for you, dear child. You are a Montague by name now, and soon you will be by _blood_."

Despite herself Rosaline shuddered. As inexperienced as she was in the affairs of marriage and love, she still had a faint idea of the events that would unfold in the bed that she and Benvolio would lay in. Only a few weeks before had she laid in Escalus' bed after hearing him murmur daringly vivid, evocative promises that had set her body aflame; if he kept kissing her he would not be able to stop and want _more_ , was what he'd said, what Rosaline had dreamed of as she fell asleep in the royal bedroom.

She had been already promised to Benvolio _then_ , by Escalus himself - was it a sin, to stand in another man's embrace, to allow him to say such things, to _do_ such things, when she was to marry the Montague heir? Was it a sin _now_ , to think of the Prince in _their_ bedroom? Confusion and hurt tangled in her heart, for Rosaline realized she did not long for Escalus in this moment. His embrace and his kisses and his promises had been empty and hollow and vain, in the end.

The gentle pressure of her nurse's hands brought her back to the present, to the heaviness and the _realness_ of the moment. The wedding had come so quickly, leaving them both with no escape route, that Rosaline had not thought of the heir they were expected to give both their houses. Somehow, upon the rare moments her mind had given the thought more than a second, she had distanced herself from the entire thing completely, the _making_ of an heir between Capulet and Montague so _unfathomable_ she had not conceived how very serious a matter it was.

Benvolio had given her his name by sliding a ring on her finger, and he would _make_ her a Montague by claiming his rights - but only when she carried and gave birth to his heir would she really count for something in her new house. Every month she bled she would make herself vulnerable to the fragile alliance between their families; she was not simply to satisfy her husband, but his entire house.

Hot tears started spilling and Rosaline was too tired, too distraught, to even feel ashamed.

"Sweet child," her nurse cooed as she wiped her cheek with her thumb. "'Tis not as frightening as you fear. Be good to your lord, and he will be good to you," she assured Rosaline. "A name is but a name, sweet girl. Your husband is as good as they come. You have witnessed with your own eyes that a Capulet can love a Montague."

But Juliet had _wanted_ to marry Romeo, Rosaline almost argued; she had loved him, wished to be his wife. Rosaline neither loved nor truly hated Benvolio - she simply did not _know_ him.

She nodded her head though, willing herself to contain her sobs. Benvolio was not the Montague who had murdered her father; Benvolio was _good_ , a decent man. "I understand," Rosaline replied after a while. There was not much she could tell her nurse without crying again.

The older woman seemed to sense it; she patted her cheek one last time and rose, leaving Rosaline alone in the master bedroom wondering helplessly what she ought to do with herself. Rosaline paced nervously, taking in all the details of the room that was now hers - the fine bed linen of a rich golden shade, the paneling around the mirror perched on top of the dressing table, the velvety curtains. The room had been decorated with the finest taste and in spite of the sheer apprehension she was still reeling from, Rosaline felt instantly at home.

She was standing at the window, looking down into the gardens, when the door softly creaked and opened; despite herself Rosaline felt herself jump inside her own skin. Benvolio quietly made his way in, surprise flickering across his features. "My lady," he bowed his head to her, "I thought you would be asleep by now."

Rosaline frowned. Had he expected her to _deny_ him his marital rights and pretend to sleep? Or worse - had he hoped she would be asleep, in too deep to resist? _No_ , Rosaline resolutely shook her head - her husband _wouldn't_ do that. She did not know where that conviction came from but Rosaline could feel it deep in her bones; Benvolio was a good man, she told herself again and again. "I could not sleep," she answered honestly and wrapped her arms around her front, curling into herself.

"Of course you couldn't," Benvolio replied, shaking his head in turn, "what with the maids fussing over you. I'll tell them not to disturb you."

"They were only obeying orders," Rosaline chided him, a little more fervent than she'd intended. Wives were not supposed to quarrel their husbands like this; but Rosaline was no ordinary bride. "My nurse wished me to be ready for you, my lord."

At her words Benvolio's eyes widened, and Rosaline frowned again as she felt lost, unable to decipher his expression. Was it _shame_ coloring his cheeks? Was he ashamed to be bound to her?

He took a step towards her then, and Rosaline felt her heart collide painfully against her ribcage as the space between them got smaller. She willed herself to look him in the eye and not tremble as she stood, waiting for him to make his move.

He stopped at a respectful distance, and his gaze shifted to concern. "You have been crying," he noted, and Rosaline started to shake her head, deny it, but Benvolio interrupted her with a hand half-raised between them. "And _I_ have been giving pointless orders to the servants and guards for the past hour, hoping you would sleep by the time I came and we could avoid this conversation altogether." He paused, his eyes casted down in regret. "Perhaps I should have come up here sooner to give you peace, my lady, if only to keep you from shedding tears because of me."

He was still wearing his ceremony clothes, Rosaline noted then - silk and leather and his sword at his belt, nowhere near ready for bed. She felt even more naked now with just her evening gown; _vulnerable_ , too. Yet she didn't feel like pretending; not with him, not when they were alone in their chamber. She didn't want to pretend that it was just the exhaustion of the day that had brought her to tears, or that she was willing to anything for the sake of Verona because truth be told, Rosaline _wasn't_.

She looked up at him, expectant, and Benvolio went on. "You are my wife," he said with an intensity she did not know he possessed, "and lady of this house. You should not have to fear me. I will not touch you," he said, final, and Rosaline knew him to be true.

She stared at him, long and deep, observing him, trying to understand this husband of hers not as detested as she'd imagined. He had kind eyes, kind words. He was making efforts for this marriage to work. And what had she done? Given him a smile or two, and no more? "And what will Lord Montague say?" she asked nonetheless, "When a month passes, a year, and there is no heir?"

At the mention of his uncle Benvolio looked stricken, as if she'd slapped him across the face. There was but a foot or two between them and the distance felt infinitely small and so far away at the same time. "In this house I _am_ Lord Montague," he said, angry, not at her though, and confident. "And you are Lady. That my uncle sees only by your womb should not be your concern. In this house we make the rules."

"May I suggest one, then?" Rosaline asked, taking a step towards him in turn. She saw Benvolio's eyes shift as he took her in for all but a second before they were back to meeting hers. _The maids did well_ , Rosaline thought, and the vulnerability she had felt upon standing before him started fading, leaving a sensation that felt _good_. Benvolio nodded his head at her, solemn, and Rosaline appreciated him for this. "We may disagree on many things, but I think there is one thing we will both agree with: it has been a long day and sleep would bring us more comfort than any word."

Benvolio's jaw clenched, his lips tugging in a brief smile. "Truest words have never been spoken before, my lady. I will wish you a good night and leave you in peace, then," he finished, an arm behind his back as he bowed to her.

" _Don't_ ," the order left Rosaline's mouth before she could rethink it. Confusion flickered in Benvolio's eyes, and Rosaline knew she _should_ tame what had sounded like excitement with a reasonable argument - the servants would talk, what would they say of their master and mistress not sharing the same bed? But mostly Rosaline did not wish to spend the night alone in a strange house, lying in the dark with her thoughts for sole company. She saw Benvolio looking around, until his gaze landed on a wooden bench by the windows. " _Now_ you're being _ridiculous_ , my lord," Rosaline couldn't help but laugh, feeling lighter.

Benvolio looked at her, placing a hand above his heart in faux-outrage. "Now, my beloved," he answered, putting as much ridiculousness in the name as she had, "you wound me. What kind of husband would I be if I shared the bed of my unwilling wife?"

He was an _idiot_ , Rosaline thought, willing to sleep on the floor rather than to share the bed. She could have laughed if not for the way her heart swelled with a _fondness_ she couldn't deny. "Your wife is telling you to lie down and _sleep_. Your wife is willing to share if you only promise not to snore."

Benvolio grinned, and bowed with a ridiculous flourish. "You have my word, sweet wife."

 

* * *

 

_She_ snored.

 

* * *

 

_to be continued_

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. slipped briskly into an intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite her claim that she wanted to join a nunnery, Rosaline knew of courtship and seduction, had been on the receiving end of Escalus' attention - and every one of his touch she'd reciprocated with a smile, an invitation, the hope that he would one day pursue her in a more official manner. 
> 
> And yet as she lay beside her husband Rosaline searched her heart and found no longing for the Prince; the heat overtaking her was from memories of the day before, of dancing with Benvolio, his hand holding hers, the way the candles had lit his eyes as they shifted along her body, Benvolio...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #oops this turned into a 4-part against my will but @queenofchildren said it was okay, so...

Upon the first morning of the rest of their life together, Rosaline blinked awake as the first beam of sun streamed through the burgundy curtains only to find herself pressed to her lord husband's side.

Had she fully come round to, she would have jerked away from his embrace, Rosaline would argue for the next decade; but still hazy from sleep and Benvolio's warmth radiating right into her body she simply looked up at him and remained still. Upon closer inspection Rosaline could only come to the conclusion that _she_ had been the one that had drawn closer, not Benvolio - his arm was curled above her head on her pillow as if he'd opened it at her gentle insistence, not as if he'd reached out to tuck her to his side. Her own hand rested faintly on him, her fingers loose around the fabric of his nightshirt; her heart thumped softly and a beat passed, then two, before Rosaline realized she did _not_ wish to let go.

For when she let herself _really_ look at her husband, Rosaline found herself sleepily distracted by how peaceful and young Benvolio looked in sleep. In broad daylight he was cheeky and brash, impetuous even, but as she lay watching him he was still and soothing and steady, a comforting presence at her side. The heat of him was almost unbearable to Rosaline who _knew_ that she would let herself drift back into sleep if she did not resist it. She focused on his face that was slightly tilted to her instead, his lashes shadowing his cheeks; on the way his hair was mussed and spread over his forehead, and Rosaline longed to slip her fingers in it, to know how soft it had to _feel_. The thought brought more heat to her cheeks, and Rosaline ducked her head, hiding her face in his side.

Was this what a wife was _supposed_ to feel for her husband? Had Juliet felt the same upon waking up in Romeo's arms? The flush on her face spread to her whole body as Rosaline thought of her cousin's words upon that fateful morning: _I'm not. A virgin_. Romeo and Juliet had given themselves to one another, body and soul; they had _been_ husband and wife. Their union had been blessed _and_ cursed by love both. She and Benvolio were nothing like them, she tried to reason, shaking the unwanted yearning she felt off; she did not love Benvolio, nor did he - it was but the dazed feeling of waking up to someone that made her want to reach for him, to stay close, _closer_.

Still the warmth flushing her body did not temper. If anything Rosaline felt her skin buzz with growing unrest the more she stayed at Benvolio's side, thoughts she prayed he could never imagine of her racing through her head. Despite her claim that she wanted to join a nunnery, Rosaline knew of courtship and seduction, had been on the receiving end of Escalus' attention - and every one of his touch she'd reciprocated with a smile, an invitation, the hope that he would one day pursue her in a more official manner. And yet as she lay beside her husband Rosaline searched her heart and found no longing for the Prince; the heat overtaking her was from memories of the day before, of dancing with Benvolio, his hand holding hers, the way the candles had lit his eyes as they shifted along her body, _Benvolio_... Love, Rosaline knew; but what she'd glimpsed in Benvolio's eyes was something else, a _lust_ that had stoked a fire in the pit of her belly, fanning sparks and embers over flames Rosaline believed could never burn for anyone else than her teenage love.

Perhaps she was but one woman among others for Benvolio, he who had known so many before, but to Rosaline this felt strange and new, and the scariest part was probably how it did not feel as terrifying as she'd expected. She'd been scared of the unknown the night before, of the expectations that laid heavily upon her - _but not of Benvolio_. They'd antagonized each other at first, fueled by their family feud, he'd teased her and she'd answered his snark with her own wit, but - at the end of the day, after they'd promised to love and cherish one another, Rosaline believed them to be _partners_ in this, friends, allies. He had understood her fear, been expecting it, attuned to her needs without her having to voice them.

Then why did Rosaline feel this empty _ache_ now, she berated herself. The ache laced with something she didn't want to name but that felt suspiciously like _disappointment_ \- Benvolio had lusted for her, but not enough to _want_ her. As she'd tossed and turned the night before, he'd laid perfectly still, letting her adjust herself to sleeping with a companion he who had been so used to sharing his bed with one conquest or another. His decency had comforted her, allowed her to fall asleep feeling safe with him, but now as the filtered light of day came in it seemed to mock her, mortifying her pride.

From her hiding place against Benvolio's ribs she tried to move, shifting her body inch by inch, but every time she did he seemed to feel it, ever attuned to her even in sleep. Rosaline inadvertently bumped her head against his arm and Benvolio started to stir. "Shh, go back to sleep," she cooed, hoping against all hope that he wouldn't wake before she could get a grip on her whirling emotions. Benvolio's nose twitched but his eyes remained closed; Rosaline exhaled a relieved sigh.

And then Benvolio rolled on his side, his weight pressing into the mattress and making her lean right into his embrace as he wrapped an arm around her back.

Tucked so firmly against his chest, Rosaline felt like a rabbit caught in a snare. Benvolio was still deep in sleep, his breathing slow and steady, his arm limp around her but still _there_. His face was pressed into _her_ pillow now, and all thoughts of slipping quietly from the bed evaded her as Rosaline felt _him_ press into her, too.

She did not dare look down and stared pointedly at the skin she could see above the hem of his nightshirt, willing herself to remain perfectly still; perhaps with luck she could will herself to fall back asleep, too, and forget this ever happened. Rosaline closed her eyes then, slowing her breathing, trying to match his, but sleep eluded her once again. She was left to lay there and wait for him to wake or move again, all the while feeling him aroused against her stomach.

The feeling wasn't exactly as horrifying as she'd like to pretend, either.

Rosaline wondered what she'd done to elicit such a response from him, though. He had to feel so lonely to appreciate simply lying beside her so much, she thought, and it made her heart ache for him a little. But Rosaline's compassion only went as far as embarrassment started creeping up on her at her _own_ reaction to him, for the heat she felt had turned _welcome._ The ache she felt low in her belly burned brighter and Rosaline prayed God had mercy upon her.

She drew a modest inch away and Benvolio stirred again, this time mumbling something in her pillow. "'Tis too early," Rosaline thought she heard.

She was used to waking up with the sun but this was surely far earlier than his usual rise, yet Rosaline only needed him to let go of her and she would gladly let him sleep it off. "You can sleep, my lord," she murmured softly as she tried moving the arm that was circling her back. "I only wish to get up."

"Mmh, _no_ ," Benvolio _humpfed_ , tilting his head so his chin brushed the top of her head. His nose wrinkled then and he started blinking his eyes slowly. "Your hair," he said around a mouthful of her curls, "it tickles, Capulet."

"All the more reason for me to go," Rosaline tried to cajole him, for she still hoped her husband would drift back to sleep before he realized the predicament they were in. If his lack of interest had hurt her pride, his arousal wasn't helping her modesty. Nor was his use of her house name; she was a Montague now, but hearing him say _Capulet_ like this, quiet and husky in the morning, felt _nice_ \- like something precious just between the two of them.

They were married now, Rosaline told herself; surely this was just the beginning of things that would be only between the two of them, and surely she was allowed to feel the _slightest_ bit pleased with it.

Benvolio's arm felt heavy, his sleepy frame weighing down on her as he seemed to slip out of consciousness again. Rosaline waited a few more minutes to make sure he was fast asleep before trying to move away -

and then decided otherwise.

What would she do with herself if she got up now? She couldn't leave the room for she knew the morning after their wedding night was important; they would come out of their chambers together, and by noon both their uncles would be there to remind them of their duty. As sweet as Benvolio had been telling her they could live by their own rules, Rosaline knew they _couldn't_. She'd accepted his reassuring words at night, but daylight brought the shakiness of his promises vividly. Whatever they decided, they would have to talk about it together first.

She thought of cleaning up, cooling her warm skin with some fresh water, perhaps even do something with her hair so it would not tickle Benvolio too much...and then chided herself for caring about such trivial things.

"Quiet, Capulet," Benvolio mouthed against her forehead as if he could hear her racing thoughts. Rosaline wondered how he could sound so sleepy and amused and soft at the same time, and when exactly had his snark turned into this more charming manner, she knew not and she be damned if she ever asked him.

"Be quiet yourself, Montague," she whispered back, allowing herself to curl in his embrace as she once again closed her eyes.

Quiet for now it was, then.

 

* * *

 

Contrary to popular belief, Benvolio Montague was not accustomed to sharing the bed of beautiful women.

Being a loyal customer to the finest brothels in Verona, he had learned that money only granted you a certain amount of time and services and cuddling your beloved of the night in the aftermath of lovemaking _wasn't_ one of them. There had been other women, of course; the world wasn't divided between noble ladies and whores, after all. But Benvolio had never spent the entire night through the morning with one of his conquests. There had been kisses, passion, and _goodbyes_.

Waking up to Rosaline Capulet, _his wife_ , was as strange and new as it was to remember that she was _Rosaline Montague_ now.

Benvolio had the vague memory of waking up earlier, but perhaps it was simply a trick of his imagination for if he had then surely Rosaline _wouldn't_ still be there, safely tucked to his side. And yet here she was, her forehead touching his chest, her head fitting perfectly beneath his chin. Her hands were twined in his shirt, anchoring him to her as they laid so close, every part of their bodies touching. Benvolio noticed the arm he had wrapped around her back and wondered if he'd been the one drawing her to him like this; his other arm laid beneath her pillow, his hand curled at the nape of her neck, and if this was what it felt like to wake up to his beautiful bride, then Benvolio _was_ as lucky a man as he'd pretended before.

For his wife was _truly_ beautiful; she looked soft and sweet in the morning light bathing their chambers, rid of her perpetual frown and worried eyes. Peace and quiet looked good on her. Surely it wasn't fair that such a sweet girl had been used and played like a pawn by their families and for that Benvolio felt ashamed, but he couldn't help gazing down at her, feeling fondness swell up in his heart. She was beautiful, but she wasn't _just_ that - she was smart and fair and wise, and she would kick him in the stomach if she ever found him looking at her with such stupid, tender eyes.

Benvolio cherished that particular fierceness very much. The Capulet girl had turned him _mad_ , and all of this within the span of a day into their married life.

He would have happily laid there forever, living in that pocket of time between asleep and awake where nothing bad could happen. Here in bed with Rosaline there were no uncles to command them to do this or that, no city to impress, no royals whose whims they had to yield to. And here in bed with Rosaline he could just admire her beauty shamelessly, the delicate jut of her collarbone as the sleeve of her gown had slipped a little down her shoulder, the secret kiss upon her pouting lips in sleep. _But_ morning had fully settled, the sun shining brightly against his eyelids no matter how tightly he pressed them shut, and for good measure his stomach rumbled loudly enough to make his lady wife stir.

Benvolio withdrew his arm gently as Rosaline's eyes started fluttering open. She didn't immediately shift; her palm turned flat against his chest as if she were checking that this was _real_ , and her lashes brushed her cheeks once, twice, three times before she came fully awake. She stared at him with wide eyes then, and Benvolio knew not if she were about to scream in horror or slap him.

Rosaline did no such thing, though. She only stayed there, frozen, obviously not knowing what to do, and Benvolio had to admit he had no clue either. All he knew was that he wanted to brush away the curls that had fallen before her eyes, and that Rosaline would most likely cut off his hand if he tried.

"Greetings, my beloved," he finally said, cheerful and just the right amount of ridiculous to make Rosaline roll her eyes. She rolled out of his embrace and onto her back, sighing to herself. _This_ felt more like her than the vision he'd waken up to, a sleeping beauty that lacked her fire.

Benvolio chuckled softly to himself and rolled out of bed while he had the courage to do so. Fetching his breeches he put them on before pulling his nightshirt off; he felt Rosaline's gaze on him then, but did not dare turn around to catch her in the act. He liked teasing her, enjoyed having found someone he could bicker with and who had suck spark and wit to throw him back - but chagrining her was not his intention. It was natural of Rosaline to be curious; she was a proper lady, and Benvolio was convinced that she and the Prince had not shared anything more than kisses.

When he did turn around he found her looking more _sad_ than flustered. How had her mood changed so quickly, Benvolio wondered, before realization of his insensitiveness dawned on him. Walking back to her he sat himself on the edge of the bed, silently waiting for her to say something.

She did not, and it made Benvolio feel powerless. There was not much they could do about their situation, but listening to her concerns, being there for her, _that_ he could do - if only she let him.

"Are you ready?" he asked and regretted his question instantly upon seeing the look Rosaline gave him - a little hollow, a lot stricken. "What is it, my lady?" he pressed, his hand itching to hold hers.

Rosaline let out a small, trembling sigh. "I was simply wondering what was awaiting us outside these four walls," she said, low and vulnerable. "And the part I should play, that of a blissful bride, or perhaps coy and shy? I know not which. I am not...I have heard but _tales_ ," she finished in a low voice, averting her eyes.

Benvolio felt himself frown - seeing Rosaline this distraught was a rude awakening he had not expected so soon. He had promised her she would not have to live in fear, and yet these had been but futile, childish vows made in the candlelight. Came morning light she sat there looking lost and Benvolio knew it to be _his_ fault for he should not have made promises he couldn't keep.

Or perhaps he _could_? Extending a hand to her, he gently nudged her knee with his palm. "Perhaps if you are up to it, sweet wife, we could pretend a little bit more?" he offered.

His suggestion was met by the rise of Rosaline's eyebrows. " _Pretend_?" she echoed doubtfully. "Are you to boast about bedding a woman you did not touch?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye, Benvolio felt his ears redden at her bold gaze. 

He gave her a grin. "Aye," he nodded his head. "And you shall look like your husband has dutifully honored you all through the night, my lady. Do you think you can do that or do you wish to practice before the mirror?" he teased kindly.

Rosaline laughed, a small, wonderful thing. "All through the night, my lord? Surely the servants have heard you _snore_."

" _You_ snored!" Benvolio laughed in turn, and it felt good, waking up to fun and laughter with his wife. Perhaps everything would be all right as long as they had this easy camaraderie, this comforting companionship.

Silence fell then, and Benvolio could _hear_ Rosaline think this through; she bit her bottom lip as she pondered the idea and he became entranced with the sight. She had lips begging to be kissed, his lady wife. "Perhaps I should look a bit more - _disheveled_ , I think?" Rosaline said after a while. She ran her hands over her thin gown and Benvolio had to force himself to keep his eyes on her face and not follow the movement. "Would a tear in my gown do?"

Benvolio did a double-take. "A tear? This gown was made of the finest linen, it would be an offense, my lady. Montague I may be, I am not a _brute_." Rosaline gave him a puzzled look. "Claiming a woman is not like claiming a piece of land. Love doesn't _have_ to be a battlefield."

" _Oh_ ," was all Rosaline said. She looked nervous, Benvolio thought, as if she wanted to say something but did not know how to formulate it. "I thought - I was _told_..." She paused, chewed on her lip again. _Whatever_ she had been told, Benvolio could imagine it had scared her more than it could have thrilled her. "I understood that duty had little to do with sentimentality," she said simply. "That pleasure was to husbands what pain was to wives." Rosaline tilted her face up at him then, her chin wobbling slightly. "My nurse told me I would soon become a Montague by blood."

 _So_ that was what had terrified her so the night before? That he'd claim her with no preamble, imposing himself on her like the unrepentant brute she imagined every Montague had to be? Benvolio would not lie - he had heard of similar tales, too, of women brutally branded by their husbands, but to him they had always felt out of time, out of place. Surely things like this no longer happened in Verona. Most marriages were born out of duty, but affection and respect, if not love, _could_ follow. Benvolio didn't remember his parents much, but his aunt and uncle were quite fond of each other; ambition was possibly the thing they cherished most, but it _had_ brought them closer.

What did Rosaline know of these things, though? Had he not been there, she would have been raped during the riots by one of his family's kinsmen. It was no surprise that she'd expected him to be no different.

Benvolio let out a tired sigh, and turned to sit more fully on the bed. Facing her now, he slowly opened his palm to cup her knee - when he felt her shiver beneath their sheet he meant to withdraw but Rosaline was faster than him and caught his wrist. Silently she put his hand back in place and covered it with her own; a peace offering, a show of trust.

Emotion caught up in his throat but Benvolio swallowed it down. "When a man is, uh, considerate and... _mindful_ of his woman's needs," he started explaining, feeling stupid at the embarrassment that swelled within him upon telling his sweet, _innocent_ wife of these matters as if he himself were as innocent, "of what she tells him feels good, and what doesn't, there's - there's no _need_ for pain, nor blood for that matter. At least not in my experience."

Rosaline ducked her head then, a soft pink hue flushing her dark skin, and Benvolio regretted his words once more. Perhaps it wasn't the best of ideas to share with her the knowledge he had come to assemble on the subject in brothels. But her hand didn't leave his, nor did she ask him to stop, so he went on. "There can be some - _discomfort_ ," he tried the word, felt it was most appropriate, "on the woman's part, as these things take...you see, it is like trying to fit in a dress after..." Rosaline's eyes widened, and Benvolio realized how terrible his analogy was. "Love requires adjustments," he concluded and grimaced at himself, rubbing his free hand over his forehead.

For a brief second Benvolio fantasized about jumping from the Ponte Pietra.

"Love requires _adjustments_ ," Rosaline repeated, and though her voice was small there was definitely _amusement_ in it. At his expense. If she were more amused than scared then Benvolio considered his job done. "My nurse did not tell me that."

Benvolio smiled. "Your nurse surely doesn't want you to know that. Or she doesn't know it herself."

Rosaline gave him a smile then, grateful. "No pain and no blood, then?" she still inquired.

"Not much, if not at all," Benvolio assured her. "And _if_ there is...then it is the husband's duty to make sure that the rest of the night is thoroughly pleasurable for his wife." Surprise flickered on her features, and Benvolio sent a silent prayer to the heavens that Rosaline would not ask him _how_. "'Tis quite enjoyable for both parties involved, once you get the hang of it."

Rosaline cocked her head at him and Benvolio bit the inside of his cheek - he had not meant to make it sound like a _skill_ that training and repetition could hone. But Rosaline only nodded her head and squeezed his hand. "Thank you for telling me," she said softly, "but don't you think - won't the maids..."

She let her question hang in the air, but Benvolio understood what she meant. His whoring reputation had surely not prepared their servants to peg him as a thoughtful, tender lover. There _were_ expectations Benvolio could not shy away from. Letting go of Rosaline's hand he stood up and reached for his belt, finding the dagger attached to it. He brought it to his palm and cut through the inside as Rosaline called out his name.

" _Benvolio_ ," she cried out, looking at him as if he'd gone mad. "What - what are you _doing_?"

"'Tis nothing," Benvolio said as he balled his fist and squeezed his hand over their sheets, and squeezed tighter until droplets of blood started staining the fabric. "'Tis just a cut," he insisted as her eyes grew wider, holding back the hiss that threatened to escape his lips at the sharp sting. "They are expecting Montague blood - it matters not _whose_ they find, my lady," he explained matter-of-factly.

Rosaline did not think it was _nothing_ , though, as she rose on her knees and grabbed his hand. "Stop it," she ordered, and Benvolio stopped squeezing and opened his palm. There was not a lot of blood but hopefully the servants did not expect him to have gutted her during the night. "Let me see."

Rosaline examined his hand and frowned, and if Benvolio didn't know better he would have thought she looked worried over him. Quietly he let her wash the cut with some water she found in a jug at her dressing table and bandage his hand. He _had_ wounded his knuckles during the riots, Rosaline reminded him, so surely no one would inquire much about it. As clear-headed as she seemed, Benvolio could see his bold move had shaken her.

He had to resist the impulse to hold her chin and tilt her face up so she'd look at him. Instead Benvolio ducked his head to meet her gaze that she'd resolutely casted downwards. He wanted to tell her he had rather cut off his hand than to ever hurt her. He wanted to remind her that she was his wife now, that he was her husband, and that he would try to put her needs first as much as he could.

He wanted to _kiss_ her like real people did. The urge burned, _had burned_ in him, since the morning before at the church.

Rosaline interrupted his musings with the press of her palm above his heart. The gesture felt intimate and full of gratitude all at once. "Come on, then," she pushed him a little. "Go boast, and I'll call the maids. Surely I need a bath after last night's exertions."

Rosaline turned around and retreated into the adjacent bathroom before Benvolio could say anything.

Her hand left a vivid brand through his skin that Benvolio knew not even an ice cold bath could extinguish.

 

* * *

 

They passed their first test brilliantly.

Rosaline kept on the blushing bride charade she had started during their betrothal, leaving Benvolio to grin and boast about their union whereas she only smiled coyly at her maids. Alessandra and another named Silvia took care of her bath, commenting on the glow she wore with subtlety. Rosaline managed to bring a flush to her cheeks, and asked them if they could help her pick a nice dress her husband would like. They settled to work on making her look as lovely as ever and though the final result made Rosaline feel more like a young maiden than a woman, the soft _oh_ Benvolio had let out upon seeing her as she joined him for breakfast had surely worked in their favor.

They settled for a long breakfast that turned into lunch, and as no uncle came to reveal the masquerade and drag them to their marital bed by the time the sun shone bright at its zenith, they both considered they were good for the moment being. With that heavy weight lifted off their shoulders Benvolio suddenly looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time - or perhaps as if he were only now realizing that he would see her, spend time with her, _every day_ for the rest of their life.

The truth of that statement sank into Rosaline, too. Seated across from her at the table was her _husband_ , the man she had sworn herself to before God. Part of her whispered that she could have found worse - for a Montague he _was_ sweet, and if Rosaline was honest he was more than that. By now the list of his good deeds far exceeded that of his offenses - he treated her more than fairly, he had saved her sister, and a mere hours before he had bled himself for her. The only thing Rosaline could blame him for was his - _their_ family name, and even that she knew was unfair of her; Benvolio had not chosen the family he was born into any more than she had.

Capulet, Montague, were but names now, for their marriage was to be the cement of an everlasting union. In a few years there would be children cherished by both houses, who would have children of their own who would never know a time when Verona was torn apart by their feud. On paper the prospect sounded good. Looking at her husband, it definitely felt _less_ terrible than it had when Escalus had first announced it.

"So what is it you wish to do now, my beloved?" Benvolio asked as he wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and stood to make his way to her side of the table. He crowded her a little, one hand braced on the back of her chair and the other on the table. From afar he must have looked to be wooing her, as the Montague charm had now proved its efficiency twice on Capulet girls. Rosaline thought of Juliet then, of how very deeply in love she'd been with her Romeo - surely that Montague smile had had something to do with it.

"I wish to see more of our home, my lord," Rosaline said as she rose too, willing Benvolio to back away a little. To his credit he stood his ground and Rosaline ended up bumping her nose against his chin. Nevertheless she intended to keep up with his little game - as shy a bride she might be, she was not powerless against her husband's charm, nor lacking any of her own. "As much as I would love to spend my days in our chambers, I feel a good wife should find a proper occupation," she added, loud enough for the servants who were already coming to clear the table.

Benvolio's mouth opened and closed at once, before his lips tugged up into a smug grin. "You are _bold_ , Capulet, I'll give you that," he whispered seductively as he crooked his elbow and offered her his arm.

He led her back inside and Rosaline chuckled. "It's Lady Montague now, or did last night's pleasure overwhelm you so that you can't remember?" she beamed, mischievous and relishing the way the tip of his ears blushed bright red.

"Who are you and what have you done to my sweet Rosaline?" Benvolio asked, bewildered. "Though I must admit _satisfaction_ looks good on you," he added, playful and sincere at the same time. "I had a surprise for sweet Rosaline, but I know not now if this Lady Montague would enjoy it."

"A surprise?" Rosaline asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She could torture him any day, after all.

Benvolio smiled at her eagerness. "I'll keep it for the end of the visit. If you behave, my lady," he said as he waved a finger at her face.

Rosaline very much wanted to bite it, but restrained herself. She allowed Benvolio to lead her around, showing her room after room. She did not care much about how many guests they could accommodate, or how many cabinets the pantry had - but what she came to enjoy was the way Benvolio told her about the little things that made their mansion special. Benvolio knew of the architect who had designed it; he had an eye for such things as he told her about the arch of the windows, the woodwork, how the sun would hit the solarium in the afternoons, giving her the best light to read. The more he talked the more Rosaline believed he had had a personal input in their home arrangement and decoration; perhaps he was as learned in the fine arts as the servants had whispered about. She thought of the golden bed linens and the red curtains in their chambers, how she'd admired their rich shades; the delicious scent of the flowers she could smell from their window; knowing Benvolio had thought it all through, that he'd turned an empty house into a home for them with what little he knew of her...It was a surprise, at the same time as it wasn't, not really, with what little she knew of him now.

Benvolio's jaw clenched as they approached the last room. Whatever the surprise was, he looked like he cared about her reaction dearly. Rosaline exhaled a fond sigh before she clasped his hand in hers to still his nervous fidgeting. "Be still, husband," she teased him gently.

His eyes locked with her before they dropped to their linked hands, and Rosaline gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. "Well then," Benvolio said. "Close your eyes." At the skeptical rise of her eyebrow he smiled, soft, gentle. " _Please_ , fair lady. Indulge me."

Rosaline blamed the impossible shade of his eyes and lingering plea in his tone, for surely nothing else could have made her give into her husband's wish so easily. Benvolio looked like a puppy, and puppies like babes had this thing about them that made people want to take care of them. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes; she heard the click of the door as Benvolio opened it, and then jumped a little as his hands came up to rest lightly on her shoulders as he guided her in.

Her shoe butted in a thick rug; she could smell a faint scent she knew but could not name. Benvolio asked her to stay still and Rosaline shivered as his touch left her this time, and he walked to the windows to open the curtains. "You can open your eyes."

Rosaline did and what she saw made her want to _hug_ her husband.

An entire section of wall was covered with shelves lined up with _books_ , more than she had been able to come close to in the past years she had been living with her uncle. An armchair sat by the window, bathed in the early afternoon sunlight, the perfect spot to spend her leisure time. Rosaline walked to it and sat, her whole body sinking into the soft, plump cushions. She let out a happy, content sigh, and when she finally looked up at Benvolio she saw that he was watching her intently, his teeth worrying his bottom lip; he looked both nervous and mesmerized, hanging onto her every tiny reaction.

Yet Rosaline kept up with her exploration of the room in silence. From the armchair she had a beautiful view on the gardens and the wild bushes of flowers whose delicious scent invaded her nose as she opened the window. Against the nearest wall stood a desk; its surface was filled with a clutter of paper and ink and oils and brushes. Rosaline had never taken drawing or painting lessons, yet her fingers itched to give it a try - now that she was lady of her own house, she had all the time in the world to discover what it was she loved.

The room was beautiful, but Rosaline could not resist going to the books any longer. Feeling Benvolio's gaze on her she kept her own eyes trained on the shelves, deciphering the titles as her fingers reverently brushed their edges. Most books were about art in any and every form - music, architecture, painting, Rosaline even found a book on dances. She found some tales of chivalry and romance, treaties of philosophy and politics, but a great number were about her husband's newfound passion for beautiful things.

"You read?" she asked him, and perhaps it wasn't the most important thing to say in that moment but still Rosaline was curious to know more about him. She'd always imagined that reading and studying were for princes, leaving only swordsmanship and combat to the heirs of noble families. She had _seen_ Benvolio fight, knew he was more than good at it - imagining him arranging flowers in a bouquet or sitting in the shadow of a tree with a book or pieces of charcoal were visions she would have never associated with him before. Now that she'd spent more time with him though, the two worlds didn't clash as much as she would've thought.

"Aye," Benvolio nodded his head. "Romeo was always asking for stories. Someone had to keep up with him."

He'd shared the bit of information matter-of-factly, as if talking about his childhood with his cousin was just another subject of conversation. Rosaline had not known Romeo very well, but she knew what it felt like to care for a younger sibling and a cousin. "How old were you when - when you came to live with your uncle?"

Benvolio pressed his lips together as he leaned his shoulder against the threshold of the door, nonchalant in his posture although his eyes had turned a shade darker. "Four, I think. Romeo was but a tiny babe then." His mouth twitched in a half-smile. "The only way to put him to sleep then was to talk to him for hours. I always ran out of ideas and eventually I turned to stories. Worst idea ever," he chuckled.

Rosaline felt herself smile. She could picture it, a younger Benvolio pacing his little cousin's room with the infant in his arms, trying to make him stop crying, for she had done it with Livia and Juliet too. It was obvious that Benvolio had loved Romeo very much, and that the protectiveness she'd seen him display before had been born out of his brotherly bond with him. "He never stopped asking once you started?"

"No, he did not," Benvolio laughed. "My uncle did not see the point in reading, but after our trainings Romeo always sought me out for a bedtime story. As we grew older we made up our own tales about our adventures."

" _Adventures_?" Rosaline quirked an eyebrow, amused. "Do I wish to know about my lord's misspent youth?"

Benvolio shook his head. "It is probably wiser you do not," he admitted shamelessly. He started saying something else but stopped immediately. Instead he spread his arms and gestured to the room. "Do you like it?" he asked, hesitant.

Rosaline no longer cared about tormenting him a bit. Sharing memories of their cousins instead of mourning their absence felt so good, almost as good as it was to get to know the man she was to spend her life with and find out that he was not as worthy of contempt as she'd unfairly believed.

She tucked a lost curl behind her ear, a little shy all of a sudden, still Rosaline willed herself to look him in the eye as she said, "I _love_ it. This - this is wonderful, Benvolio."

His smile reached his eyes, the surprise in them still shining so brightly Rosaline wondered how he could have thought otherwise. This was so thoughtful of him to gift her such a safe haven, to show her who he was and what he loved, to share it with her. Neither sense nor sensibility could have prevented her from striding up to him and wrapping her arms around his back, pressing her face in his chest.

Benvolio gasped softly but Rosaline only squeezed tighter. She had no words to express her gratitude, but she could _show_ him, make him _feel_ it in his bones.

How long they stood there like this, Rosaline knew not. At some point Benvolio's hands came to rest lightly at her back, his touch so soft it felt like he didn't dare hold her tighter. Rosaline wished he would, but understood how shaky that fine line between what they wanted and what they could do was - she herself still not believed the boldness she'd showed in touching him like this, so freely, without caring about feeling too much about a man she'd called her enemy just weeks before.

Perhaps it was easier to let herself care, safely hidden from the world as his arms finally wrapped fully around her.

Perhaps it was easier to pretend that she did not enjoy it, then.

 

* * *

 

_to be continued_

 

 


	4. when we're alone, it could be home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benvolio looked at her as if she weren't real then, eyes widening and doing nothing to help the pounding in his head. But Rosaline was real, soft and warm as her hand in his, sweet and fair no matter the circumstances, no matter the husband she had not chosen but still took care of. She had more courage than an army of men, and every word she spoke, be it harsh or kind, was more sincere than any truth he'd ever heard. It was perhaps that fierce sense of self in spite of everything that had been taken away from her that Benvolio admired the most about his wife, the one thing that made him think she was the best of them all even if some people, both their uncles included, believed she was not everything a proper lady should be. To him she was everything and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned into a monster because I have no self-control, but as always, @queenofchildren enabled me so... #sorrynotsorry
> 
> please note that the rating of the story has gone up to "explicit" as of this chapter. if you're not into that kind of stuff you can just skip the last segment of the story.
> 
> there *will* be an epilogue of sorts for this story in the shape of a sequel, so stay tuned in the following weeks if you want to see more of these two living happily ever after. :)

Benvolio had never been in the business of denying himself the simple pleasures life had to offer; he'd led the halcyon days of his teen years pursuing what he desired to his uncle's dismay and growing resentment, waiting for love to come to him. In the meantime, women and wine and nights of revelry and fun with his cousin and friend had made him as happy as a man could ever wish to be.

Six weeks into his marriage to Rosaline Capulet, Benvolio realized that out of all the things that had changed in his life since he'd become heir to House Montague, his _wife_ was the one he disliked the least - or, if he were honest with himself, the one he liked _best_.

Which was a shame, considering how little time he got to spend with her.

He hardly saw her in the mornings - the first morning when they'd woken up tangled together had been the _exception_ , not the rule, for Benvolio almost always woke wifeless, his bride rising with the sun on stealthy, silent feet. If he sometimes felt her light weight dip on the edge of the mattress, all he could find as he opened his eyes was the empty, still warm spot she'd vacated, the hem of her nightgown catching his eye as she slipped in the bathroom, too fast for him to call out her name. What would he tell her, anyway? Ask her to come back to bed because he'd grown accustomed to her presence already, to the feel of her hair tickling his nose when she moved closer during the night, the heady scent of her skin? Admit he enjoyed the companionship this marriage had brought him when he knew her to love another? So he laid there morning after morning missing his wife and feeling foolish about it until he ended up falling back asleep. By the time he got up again he'd find Rosaline already up and about tending to the servants and maids, running their household like she'd been meant to do so, Capulet grace and Montague natural presence all at once. They shared breakfast and polite, almost tender smiles, every single _my beloved_ leaving his mouth tasting a little truer each time he spoke the words. Rosaline, on her part, was friendly, warmer, but still somewhat out of reach.

His uncle always had something planned for him during the day - meetings with merchants and possible allies or with the noblemen of the great houses of Verona, afternoons spent teaching him how to be a proper Montague that left Benvolio feeling like no matter how hard he tried he would never be enough. After his initial reluctance at playing his part he'd finally decided to do his best, if only to keep his uncle from harassing him about his marital affairs. Lord Montague seemed happy enough with what his spies in the house reported for he often made comments about how Benvolio had bent his Capulet bride to his will and that, perhaps, he would not need to go back to screwing around if she satisfied him so. He had had to quell his uncle's lusty inquiring though and had found that dedicating himself to be what he was not - _Romeo_ \- was the best path to take on. Yet the news of Rosaline bleeding this month had deterred him, and while Lord Montague had granted that heirs could take time to come, he'd been sharper with Benvolio since, insisting on his duty to both his house and the city, pushing him harder.

Benvolio had accepted the low blows to his virility without a flinch.  If it kept his uncle from speaking ill of his wife's honor, then he believed it worth it.

It still left Benvolio incredibly strained at the end of the day, though. He often came home late in the evening now, finding that Rosaline had already had dinner and asked the servants to leave something for him. Sometimes she joined him and her company was a better comfort than the meal; other times he found her reading in the study or in the gardens, or sitting at the desk writing letters to Livia. When his uncle felt particularly bent on sucking the life out of him, Benvolio would tiptoe in their chambers to find her asleep already. On those nights he found that sleep eluded him more than any other night, his pent-up frustration and annoyance finding no release nor relief in the soft smiles of his wife, in the gentle way she looked at him when he shared tales of his daily activities, the concern that sparked at times when he let the walls slip for a brief moment. Even as he laid beside her in bed he felt alone at times, lonely in a way he had not allowed himself to be since Romeo and Mercutio's demise.

It was on one of these particular nights that Benvolio found himself wishing he could just forget that this marriage was but a sham and go pursue his own selfish pleasure at the tavern or the brothel. The thought shocked him for it had not been as hard a change to make to stop his visits there. Even the affection, the foolish love he had had for Stella and the plans he'd made to run away with her had dulled and faded between the time he'd been betrothed to Rosaline and the month and a half he'd been married to her, spending day after day and night after night beside her. But Benvolio only knew a way or two to release tension and as he came home to a silent, dark house, no candle flickering in his and Rosaline's bedchambers like a beacon pointing him home, he found that his feet had led him to the kitchens and the wine cabinets before he could think about it twice.

Wine was not nearly enough to temper the bottling energy inside him that longed to be freed, nor did it work on quieting the racing thoughts in his mind. Sitting alone in the obscurity of the kitchen, the dim light the night sky provided felt rather ominous and grim to match Benvolio's sour mood, as if the stars themselves had stopped shining bright only to cast more shadows upon his soul. There was not enough wine to drown the echoes of Mercutio's laughter that he'd never hear again, not enough liquor to blur his vision until he could no longer picture the beam of his cousin's smile. Thoughts and memories of his friends shifted to his uncle's latest sharp, accusatory reprimand; the way the Prince looked at his wife as if she were his at every occasional dinner or ball; how he never knew where the line between pretending and slowly falling for Rosaline laid. At the end of the day his beloved was both the remedy to all his troubles and the deadly curse that plagued his every thought, his every action.

For no matter how hard his uncle could be with him, coming home to Rosaline was enough to let his clouding anger fade. Every time sorrow threatened to drown him in, watching her as she read quietly or did any other ordinary thing with both grace and defiance stitched into her every gesture reminded him that life could still be good. Yet nothing quelled the sorrow and the anger and the agony of _not_ _knowing_ where she stood, what she thought and felt towards him. Wine only made Benvolio bitter about being wed to the fairest lady in all of Verona, knowing that despite her smiles he did not _truly_ make her happy.

Benvolio was so lost in his morose thoughts that he did not realize he was no longer alone until the moment someone coughed softly, the curt sound making him straighten up his head too quickly he momentarily felt dizzy. Rosaline stood at the door, her arms wrapped around herself. The night breeze blew softly in her curls and her thin night robe shifted around her frame; her features were furrowed in something half caught between concern and aggravation.

"My beloved," the affectionate name left Benvolio's mouth before he could think it through, his voice laced with a slur he wished he could control. "What brings you here?"

Rosaline's nose wrinkled, her brow furrowing slightly. Benvolio's shoulders tensed, readying himself for the rightful fit of anger he felt he deserved for making her get up in the middle of the night only to find her husband half drunk. But Rosaline only sighed, a soft, small thing. "My husband wasn't in my bed," she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and took a step to him until she stood right by his side. She surprised him then, wrapping her fingers around his glass of wine and bringing it to her own lips. Rosaline clucked her tongue at the taste. "So you're neglecting your wife for _this_?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice as she teased him.

The weight on Benvolio's shoulders felt even heavier though, if possible. Was this truly what Rosaline believed, then, behind her gentle teasing? That every night he came home so late they did not talk or see each other was of his own volition? Had he been so absorbed in feeling sorry for himself that he had not even considered what it did to Rosaline to spend her days on her own? He didn't even know how many afternoons he'd spent doing nothing except _be_ with his wife. Her sister had only come to visit a few times, and there were only so many hours she could dedicate to books. Benvolio frowned at the thought of his insensitivity, willing himself to say something; his mouth felt dry though, his throat hoarse.

He startled a little as Rosaline's hand came up to his face, her fingers gently smoothing the creased lines stretched on his forehead. Her touch was soft like that of a mother for her sick child, or perhaps, Benvolio thought, that of an indulgent wife with her no-good husband. "What's this all about?" she asked, concern back in her voice.

Benvolio shook his head and realized it was a very, very bad idea as he did so. His head pounded, and he could not remember how much wine he had had. But at the core of it all the problem was that he did not know what _this_ was about, either. His thoughts were a chaotic mess, and so was _he_. Rosaline was looking at him with such soft eyes he could not bring himself to voice his concerns - that he was not a good husband, that he was sorry for _not_ being the man she wanted. Instead Benvolio turned his face into her palm as she slid her hand to cup his jaw, closing his eyes, reveling in her touch. "Just a bad day," he said after a while, and while it was not the entire truth, it was no lie either. It seemed to satisfy Rosaline, though, as she echoed, " _Just a bad day_ ," and her thumb kept stroking his cheek.

Benvolio had no idea how long they stayed like this, only that when Rosaline started to pull her hand away he caught her wrist much quicker than he'd thought possible in his current state. " _Don't_ ," he pleaded, brushing his lips against her knuckles on impulse.

"I only meant to get you some water," Rosaline said softly, her eyes set on the hand he'd just kissed. "You'll hate yourself in the morning if you go to bed like this."

"Already do," Benvolio slurred, then felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he saw hurt flashing across Rosaline's eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized dumbly, "I'm an idiot."

Rosaline exhaled slowly and shook her head, a small, soft smile tugging at her lips then, and Benvolio's fingers itched to draw it, to commit it to paper and ink. He couldn't quite believe how soft she was when he felt like all he deserved was her anger at best, her disappointment at worst. "We'll talk about this in the morning," she promised and commanded all at once. "And I would like it if you didn't call yourself an idiot. That's _my_ prerogative as your wife."

Benvolio looked at her as if she weren't _real_ then, eyes widening and doing nothing to help the pounding in his head. But Rosaline _was_ real, soft and warm as her hand in his, sweet and fair no matter the circumstances, no matter the husband she had not chosen but still took care of. She had more courage than an army of men, and every word she spoke, be it harsh or kind, was more sincere than any truth he'd ever heard. It was perhaps that fierce sense of _self_ in spite of everything that had been taken away from her that Benvolio admired the most about his wife, the one thing that made him think she was the best of them all even if some people, both their uncles included, believed she was not everything a proper lady should be. To him she was everything and _more_.

Benvolio wished he could be more articulate, more coherent so he could tell her, so she would _believe_ him, but half drunk as he was all he managed was a small nod of his head and another kiss dropped to the back of her hand that Rosaline gracefully allowed. He had to let go of her as she went to fetch him a glass of water and put it before him, ordering him to take care of his reeking breath before he joined her in bed.

When he finally did Rosaline was still awake, waiting for him as she laid with her head propped against her pillow, watching him as he walked on not so steady legs to his side of the bed and slipped beneath their sheets. Benvolio turned on his side, observing her in turn. Rosaline tilted her head on her pillow, biting on her lip, looking unsure when just a moment ago she'd been the one pulling him up. She looked at him so intensely, her eyes boring right through him as if she wanted to pierce through the haze of alcohol and self-pity he'd indulged in. "You _are_ good, Benvolio," she said, speaking his name with that upmost care that lived in her voice every time she called him by his first name, a rare occurrence that made his heart skip a beat each time.

Benvolio felt heat flush his face but willed himself to keep looking at her. He could do it all day, he believed, if given the chance to. "I _will_ be a better husband," he swore. He would pledge himself to prove it every day, to earn her approval.

Rosaline sighed again - perhaps it was all she could do about him sometimes - and let out a soft _ugh_. It sounded _fond_ , not aggravated or half-disgusted like she had done many times before during their betrothal. Turning on her side too she propped herself on her elbow, her free hand reaching out to him. Her fingers stopped short of stroking his face again and slid down his arm; they circled his wrist and tugged a little to Benvolio's astonishment. "Just - come here," Rosaline explained at his surprised gasp.

Benvolio was _dreaming_ , he knew it then, for surely Rosaline was not tugging at him, moving him closer to her and holding him to her chest. He resisted her tugging then, and ended up halfway hovering above her, one arm caught beneath his weight and the other propping him at her waist, Rosaline's own hand wrapped around his biceps as if it'd always belonged there.

She looked up at him then, her eyes fierce and soft at the same time, their dark brown warm, no shyness on her features as her hand moved back to his face. "What -" he began to say, not knowing where to go next. Where was _she_ going next? "Are you - you don't have to -" he babbled incoherently.

Rosaline's gaze grew half-exasperated, half-fond again as she shook her head, her ringlets spread around her head on her pillow making her look like an angel to Benvolio who as dazed as he were still knew he'd think her just as beautiful were he sober. "I'm not - this is not about _duty_ ," she told him, and if he caught the slightest hint of something that suspiciously sounded like _regret_ in her voice then Benvolio shook it off, blaming the wine for the hope he felt swelling up in his chest. "You're - you're my husband, and you are a _good_ husband," she added, her eyes a little unfocused as she paid him the exact compliment Benvolio dreaded he'd never hear from her lips. "So I wish you to...let me be a good wife in turn, too."

"You're the _best_ wife," he confessed, unable to hold the words back, and perhaps it was the wine, too, that was to blame for the dripping affection he could hear in his own voice, and how he wished he _could_ express that affection in another shape or form. Rosaline's mouth formed a silent, soft _oh_ , and Benvolio had to drag his eyes away from her mouth at the same time as she pulled at his shoulder, pulling him flush to her in the process.

She squeaked a little at his sudden weight pressing into her side, the scruff of his beard rasping against the column of her neck eliciting a tiny, sudden moan that Benvolio prayed God he would forget come morning light or else he'd wish nothing more than to find all the ways to make it happen again. He shifted his body off of her slightly, allowing his arms to wrap around her as Rosaline herself seemed to try to arrange the both of them in a more comfortable position, intimate in a new way but familiar already. Touching her, being close to her like this did not feel like an explosion but like quiet and peace and _home_ \- he'd been an idiot thinking he could find solace anywhere _else_ than in _his_ Capulet's embrace.

It took a little more shifting until it felt just _right_ ; he stopped nuzzling her neck to rest his head by her stomach, his face pressed just above her navel. Rosaline's breath had caught in her throat as he'd first settled there, but she'd prevented him from moving with her fingers slipping in his hair, sifting gently, her breathing slowing to a steady, quiet lull that Benvolio wanted nothing more than to let himself fall asleep to. No one had touched him like this in so long - without expecting anything in return, to give and to give and _only_ to give. Her fingers were doing wonders as they stroked against his scalp, slowly easing his headache and replacing it with a dull sensation that left room to the softness, the gentleness of her. "Tell me about your day," he almost _purred_ some time later, surprising himself and her both by still being awake.

His request was met by Rosaline's soft chuckle. "You're hardly awake, my lord," she laughed, and Benvolio wondered if he was imagining the fondness in her whispery voice.

Rosaline scratched her nails at the nape of his neck and Benvolio let out a hot puff of air against her stomach, the fabric of her gown so thin he felt her visibly shiver. For a minute his eyes shut at the onslaught on his own senses - tangled with her as he were he could feel every twitch of her abdomen, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the scent of her - and then he tilted his head up, propping his chin up on her navel. "I like listening to you, Capulet," he admitted softly, and while he sometimes liked nothing better than to get a rise out of her this was also true, and in the quiet of their bedroom it felt like as good a time as any to finally tell her. " _Please_."

Rosaline's eyes widened a little, bright with surprise in the moonlight. "All right," she said after a minute, and started telling him about the daily affairs of one Lady Montague while her husband was away.

She'd taken to teaching the maids how to read; Alessandra was doing good, and Rosaline hoped she could try her with books soon. Livia had come that afternoon and hoped he could make it the next time she did, for she'd hardly seen her brother-in-law more than a few minutes of polite civilities here and there since the wedding. Benvolio fell asleep sometime around Rosaline telling him about the cherry trees she'd like to grow in the gardens, her hand still running through his hair.

When he woke up the next morning it was _still_ there.

 

* * *

 

After that night it became ineluctable that Rosaline had to admit, even if solely to herself, that she was no longer as _unwilling_ a participant in this marriage as she'd been in the beginning - that, even, she had _truly_ come to see Benvolio as her husband, the man she was to build a life with, a man she wanted to get to know and spend her days with, and not simply a burden, shackles tying her to the Montague house and name.

When she fell asleep with his warm body pressed to hers, or when he kissed her hand before leaving for the day - _then_ she knew for sure that the pleasant heat that flushed her skin was not from maiden bashfulness but from something much deeper, more real, that had only laced two Montague and Capulet souls _once_ before.

Telling him, though, was definitely _out_ of the table. Now that they had found a balance, a comfort in being together, Rosaline would not throw their peace out of the window for something as _ludicrous_ as _falling in love with her husband_. But she'd started showing her heart a little more; allowed herself to be more tender, kissing his cheek as he departed, staying in bed longer in the morning, the feel and the heat of him seeping into her and making her think of things a maiden should not, but a _wife_...a wife _could_ , and Rosaline allowed herself to dream of what husbands and wives did as they laid together. On the days he did not have to attend any of his uncle's duties she spent more time learning the art of him, watching him draw or sculpt, turning paper or canvas to living pieces, hard stone to smooth human features, and her eyes became fixated on the way his fingers moved and flexed, how dexterous they were, how _skilled_ , and inevitably her thoughts would lead her to daydream of just how wonderful these fingers could be on her _skin_.

Rosaline had always believed herself to be a collected, reasonable person, head before heart - _well_ , that was _before_ Benvolio.

"You're not listening to me, Ros," Livia laughed softly, her head tilted to the side in that manner Rosaline had come to know meant trouble.

"Of course I am," Rosaline denied, despite not having any idea what Livia was telling her about. She tried catching the eye of one of the maids, hoping someone would clue her in, but she found none; she and Livia were alone at the lunch table, and Rosaline casted her eyes down on the grapes she started playing with in her hands. "Or perhaps I wasn't?" she tentatively confessed.

Livia gave her a slow, mischievous smile. "Thinking of your dearest husband, were you now?" she gloated.

Rosaline almost choked on her sister's boldness. Livia had never hidden her appreciation of Benvolio - _she_ had been the one telling Rosaline to be open-minded about him, to see the man and not the house he had had no choice being born into. Although her sister and husband had not seen much of one another since their nuptials, Benvolio always had a thought for Livia - when he couldn't make it home in time to see her he would send Rosaline a note addressing his fond wishes to the younger Capulet, and Livia in turn always asked about her sister's husband. If Livia's admiration had grown exponentially after Benvolio had rescued her during the riot, Benvolio's fondness for her had been born out of the tales Rosaline had shared with him during these afternoons or evenings they spent reminiscing their youth; Benvolio had told her once that he felt like he _knew_ Livia and it'd warmed Rosaline's heart, all the little, kind attentions her husband had for someone who, ultimately, did not have to mean anything to him.

"This is good, isn't it?" Livia pressed on, head still tilted but eyes shining with genuine curiosity. At Rosaline's silence she insisted, "You look happy."

Rosaline pondered that statement and found in her heart that yes, she _was_ happy. Not simply thankful that she had not been wed to an old, drunk, abusive man, nor making the best of a bad situation - she was happy with her husband whose personal goal always seemed to make her so. He had, from the beginning - even when they hated each other for the crime of being born into a family they had been taught to despise, even when he wished not to marry her any more than she did, even when his uncle pressed him to accomplish his duties and still Benvolio had never laid a finger on her. He had put her first then and now, a stark contrast to the picture of a sinner she'd painted of him before she'd truly come to know him, when her prejudice against his house had blinded her to the sweetness of him.

"I am," Rosaline admitted, and it felt good to say the words, and to have her sister beam at her in response. Were there really anyone else she could say this to and who would rejoice in her happiness? Her uncle would fear that fondness for her husband could blind her to the duty she forever had for House Capulet; her aunt would hate her even more so, for finding such a good, daily thing when her own daughter had been deprived of it. Escalus...Rosaline no longer cared what the prince thought. He'd accused her of torturing him, of playing with his heart, but Rosaline knew now that she must have only been a very small part in it for him to throw her away so carelessly and perhaps doing so had been a blessing in disguise no one had foreseen. "Benvolio is...not what I expected, to say the least," she said tentatively. "But, with time I've come to - miss him when he's not there, and smile more when he is."

"You should tell him, then," Livia said, and as Rosaline opened her mouth to protest her younger sister took her hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You _must_. It matters not if you speak in poetry or rambling words. A mere weeks ago he was _that Montague_ in your mouth, and now he's your beloved in your heart. You of all people know what it is like to live in a house where you don't know you're loved."

Rosaline knew not what to say. For her sister everything looked so simple - she knew what the servants had reported, and every time Livia had come to visit Rosaline had played her part well, or so she believed. Hearing such truth from her sister's mouth Rosaline started wondering...when had the transition happened? When had she started calling Benvolio by name before her, when had he even _become_ Benvolio to begin with?

But of all the things Livia had said it was the latter part that rang the truest to Rosaline. She had spent years with her uncle and aunt knowing she meant nothing more to them than an obligation, and Benvolio had known that with his uncle almost all his life. He'd been a boy then, and he'd grown with the dear love of his cousin, but not that of a parent. She could see it in him all the time, in the little things he believed no one noticed; the harsh words his uncle threw his way and that he took in without a fight, his self-deprecating humor, how he'd jumped to swearing he'd be a _better_ husband when she had been all but telling him how good he was already. He needed someone to fight _for_ him - if anyone deserved unconditional love, it was Benvolio.

"When did you become so wise, dear sister?" Rosaline asked in wonder. Before her Livia had turned from a romantic, perhaps a little naïve maiden to a wise, strong woman.

Livia squeezed her fingers tighter. "I had the best example." She paused then, her eyes growing more serious but no less bright. "You've always done what was best for the two of us. _This_ \- this is about _you_ , Ros. You _love_ this man, don't deny it, so just - just be happy, will you?"

Rosaline could only nod.

After they finished lunch they retired to the gardens to enjoy the last, hot days of summer. Rosaline read quietly as Livia did her embroidery, like they used to when they were younger. Every now and then Rosaline would read aloud a piece of poetry that moved her, or tell her sister about the new things she'd learned though contact with Benvolio; how to choose the perfect piece of marble to work on, how to mix paint to create colors she could not even name. Rosaline felt happy and carefree, and realized as the afternoon went on that the only thing missing to make the day perfect was her husband.

Alessandra walked in on them by late afternoon, out of breath as she curtsied, a habit Rosaline had not managed to help her get rid off of no matter how many times she'd insisted that she did not have to all the time. "You asked to know when Lord Montague would be back, my lady," she announced. "He is with the guards."

"The guards?" Rosaline echoed, curious and a little concerned. "Is there something going on?" She was surprised that Benvolio had not come directly to her, and instead gone to talk with the guards.

"I don't think so, my lady. Lord Montague looked..." Alessandra bit her lip, looking for her words. "I would not dare to presume, but I found that he looked _upset_ , my lady. He's sparring with Arturo."

Rosaline frowned, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Livia cock an eyebrow at her. Benvolio trained regularly with the guards - he'd known the Montague men all his life, and Arturo of all had been training him since he was thirteen years old. Arturo was the only one who could drag her husband out of bed at dawn to run, jump, squat, and spar, but usually their training sessions were planned - Benvolio honed his sword skills twice a week, and sparred twice as much. If he'd come back from his uncle's straight to spar with the guards...then Rosaline felt pretty certain that his day had gone way less idyllically than hers. "Thank you, Alessandra. I'll go see if he needs anything myself."

The girl nodded her head and bowed, and Rosaline and Livia were up and heading to the courtyard in no time. What they found there left Rosaline speechless, her mouth going dry as heat crept up her neck and cheeks and pooled low in her abdomen at the sight.

She'd never seen Benvolio like _this_. He was no coward - she'd seen him fight before, strong and steady and tall when it was needed of him - but her husband would fight for anyone but himself. Usually when he came home from his uncle he was more prompt to feeling sour and sorrowed than truly furious. What she was seeing now was something else entirely - Benvolio not only giving as many blows as he got, even more, but truly giving himself entirely to the fight, his whole body screaming tension, his hands balled in tight fists he aimed anywhere he could get, Arturo having to bend and dunk to block out his attacks, patiently taking in each blow while giving Benvolio advice about his posture and his stance. The intensity both shocked Rosaline, made her wish she could help, at the same time as it awakened something in her that she knew not how to name but still _understood_ at the very core, something primal that burned in her belly upon seeing him unleashed and unrestrained, he who was always so careful around her.

The fact that Benvolio had foregone his shirt, his chest glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun, did not help _at all_. If Rosaline knew that her husband was handsome, she had never let herself see and crave beyond his lovely features and gorgeous eyes and skilled hands. But staring at him here and there...

She became so entranced in watching him Rosaline forgot everything else - Livia standing at her side, visibly torn between saying something or turning around; making her presence known as Benvolio and Arturo kept sparring, oblivious to them. It was like nothing else existed for him in that moment, either; his jaw was clenched, strong and intense as he gritted his teeth, punched at the other man harder and harder, every tight, corded muscle in his back and arms rippling with his effort. Whatever his uncle had said or done, it had unhinged him, and if he had not been able to take it out on the man then surely he was blowing some steam off now.

Rosaline balled her fingers in her skirts, her teeth digging at her bottom lip. She wanted to soften him around every sharp edge, to ease the tension out of him, to feel him go soft and pliant in her arms, but at the same time she wanted that fire _too_ , to let it consume her, to feel -

she wanted to feel him, she _wanted_. 

At her side Livia shifted, tilting her head as if to tell her they should go. Still Rosaline's feet remained firmly planted on the ground; as much as this felt like an _intrusion_ \- Benvolio was visibly struggling with something he could or did not want to share with her - Rosaline couldn't imagine leaving now.

Benvolio made the decision for her. Arturo and he were circling around each other, and at last her husband saw her, surprise flickering across features that turned instantly softer at the sight of her. "Ros -" he started to call out, momentarily losing his focus on his sparring partner when the guard's fist collided with his jaw, _hard_.

"Benvolio!" Rosaline cried out, her legs moving on their own accord as she strode out towards him. Benvolio had fallen to the ground under the impact and was cradling his sore jaw with his hand. "Are you hurt? _Benvolio_ ," Rosaline kept calling his name as she knelt at his side hurriedly, her own hands moving to cup his face and replacing his own.

"Benvolio," the guard echoed with definitely less anguish in his deep voice. "You lost focus."

In her hands Benvolio's head gave a nod, and Rosaline saw red. Letting go of him she turned around still on her knees to look up at Arturo, glaring at him with all the fierceness she could muster as she half-spoke, half-cried out. "He _lost focus_? What kind of training is this? He's - he's - God, you're _bleeding_ ," Rosaline noticed at last.

The hard knock against his jaw had split his lip open. It was a small bruise, tiny droplets of blood gathering but no gushing gap, but Rosaline felt panic overwhelm her anyway. Benvolio felt it too for one hand came up to curl around her cheek, his thumb tracing a smooth, soothing pattern on her skin as the other settled on her lap. "Breathe, Capulet," he said softly, so low it felt only for her ears. "I'm fine. Don't bite Arturo's head off," he tried to tease.

But Rosaline shook her head, having none of it. He was _hurt_ \- he was bleeding. _She_ had distracted him - what would have happened if they had been training with _swords_? Her own breathing was getting faster, blood rushing to her head, beating a staccato in her temple. Benvolio's hand felt heavy on her knee, the other unbearably warm against her cheek. Her own hands tingled, longing to trace every inch of him, to feel for herself that he was as fine as he said, that he was unhurt and well.

"Rosaline?" Benvolio spoke her name, curious and soft as she kept staring at him, her mouth half-open in a silent gasp before she suddenly pressed it against his own.

It was rushed and impulsive, her lips knocking against his more than a proper kiss, but it felt a thousand times more real and vivid than the kiss they'd shared on their wedding day, soft and proper where this one was anything but. Rosaline felt Benvolio's breathless gasp against her mouth, followed quickly by a faint whimper as she grazed at his torn lip with her teeth. Benvolio's hand at her cheek moved to the back of her head then, slipping in her hair and holding her there as he became a more active participant in the kiss, his own lips seeking hers as hungrily as she first had. It was only as her own hands brushed against his bare chest on their way to knot in his hair that Rosaline startled back to reality and pulled back a little, every single nerve in her body alight from his intoxicating touch.

Benvolio looked _wrecked_ as she took him in, his breath ragged and his face flushed pink, and the dazed, wild look in his eyes had to mirror her own for everything felt blurry around Rosaline, the guard and her sister and the courtyard just a faint scene in the background as all she could see and taste and feel was _Benvolio_.

As he said nothing Rosaline realized she was the one who had to speak - she had been the one kissing him, after all. But all she could focus on was the taste of his lips and how none of her daydreams had come close to recreate their perfection, the faint memory of their wedding day not enough to build anything like it. Her tongue traced her lip, chasing the taste, and Rosaline _almost_ moaned as she saw the obvious struggle Benvolio was in upon watching her do so. "You - you're fine," she said in a small, trembling voice, more to herself than to him.

"Aye," Benvolio nodded dumbly as his thumb resumed stroking her cheek, his touch moving slowly downward until it landed on her mouth, tracing the same pattern her tongue just had. "Fear not, my lady. I have thick skin."

"You're _bleeding_ ," Rosaline jested, feeling lighter now that she knew him to be safe. His eyes were so bright she had to force herself to look away; ducking her head Rosaline became more aware of their audience _pretending_ not to look at them. "Come on now, you ought to get yourself cleaned up before dinner, husband." Propping herself with her hands on his knees Rosaline stood up, extending a hand to him.

It was a terrible idea since with his heavier weight he pulled her to him as he rose, and Rosaline almost bumped into his slick chest. It was Benvolio's turn to laugh, delight and amusement more than teasing bubbling in his chest, and Rosaline wanted to hear that sound every day. Whatever had angered him so had faded, enough to make room for her.

"I - I'll tend to the maids, then," Rosaline mumbled and turned around, grabbing a silent, shocked Livia by the arm and striding off to the kitchens before Benvolio could add anything.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was awkward, Rosaline's sister making polite conversation that Benvolio tried to focus on but failed miserably. Even the cold bath he'd taken had not been enough to tame the flame Rosaline's touch had awakened in him. He hardly noticed it when both Capulet women stood, Livia's carriage having arrived to pick her up and take her back to their uncle's.

Although he did feel a little guilty still, not having spent enough time getting to know his wife's blood, Benvolio couldn't pretend he wasn't relieved when they finally saw Livia off, he and Rosaline standing at the end of the alley side by side as they watched the carriage disappear into the night. He remembered the first night they'd stood here together on their wedding night, not quite friends but allies already, kindness and support binding them more than the love they pretended to feel for each other. He remembered Rosaline kissing him on the cheek, the feel of her smaller hand clasped in his, and carrying her into their new house, hoping someday they could make it a real home.

Looking at her now, beautiful under the night sky, Benvolio believed they had.

"What are you thinking about?" Rosaline asked, her voice small and hesitant, a stark contrast to the bold impulse she'd shown earlier by kissing him so fiercely.

She _had_ kissed him, Benvolio kept repeating himself as he turned to face her fully and took a step closer, well into her personal space. He'd sworn himself he would never touch her unless she asked him to, but _God_ , she had kissed him, not for show, not for the Prince, not for Verona - she had kissed him because she _wanted_ to, and Benvolio wanted nothing more than to kiss her, kiss her and never stop if only she allowed it.

Carefully he placed a hand at her waist, watching Rosaline's every move as he did so, waiting for a sign that she did not want this, readying himself to back off if so. But Rosaline stood her ground, looking him right up in the eye as his free hand came up to her face, tenderly curling around a lock of hair before he splayed it at the nape of her neck. "I'm thinking about how beautiful you are, Capulet," Benvolio whispered into the night. "I'm thinking about how your lips are the best thing I've ever tasted," he went on, smoothing his thumb against the back of her neck. He felt the shiver that ran through Rosaline ripple through his own skin. "I'm thinking about how much of a wreck I'll be if I don't get to kiss you again."

Benvolio paused, waiting for her reaction, _any_ reaction - but Rosaline simply stood there, her body soft and pliant in his embrace but her eyes wide and incredulous as she stared up at him, confusion flickering in the dark brown. He had a thousand other things to tell her - how he loved that she was the first thing he saw upon waking up, how much he'd wanted to kiss her when she'd offered to come see his uncle with him, how adorable she looked when she read, how sometimes he looked at her as she dashed around the rose bushes and could just picture a little girl with her eyes and her heart doing the same in some years. Benvolio wished he could tell her but her silence was slowly making him wonder if he'd misread everything all along.

Rosaline chewed on her lip, her hands slowly coming up to rest on his chest, her fingers toying absently with the open collar of his shirt. "I - I thought... _God_ ," she swore softly, ducking her face, "I thought you didn't want me."

It was Benvolio's turn to stare at her in shock, his own eyes widening at her words. "Me _not_ wanting you?" he echoed, dumbfounded. "Where did you pick that one, Capulet?" he wondered aloud more than he expected her to answer him. If anything he was scared that he'd been too forward already, making her uncomfortable with the way he couldn't help looking at her, how eager he was to spend time with her whenever he could.

From her hiding spot against his chest, the crown of her hair tickling the exposed skin at his collar, Rosaline half giggled, a sweet, innocent sound that matched her confession. "You never tried anything, not even once, and - I was so grateful for you, but - I couldn't help but wonder..." She paused then, her breath coming out in hot puffs against his skin.

"Wonder what?" Benvolio pressed gently, the hand at her waist leaving her side to rest under her chin, tilting it up so Rosaline looked at him once more. " _Capulet_ ," he exhaled her name like a prayer, urging her to speak as he cupped her face with both hands.

"I was told men enjoyed lying with their wives, and the other night when you thought I was...when you thought I was _offering_ you immediately said I didn't _have_ to," Rosaline explained, and he could feel how hot her cheeks had turned, even as she kept looking him in the eye, strong and fierce even in the face of her embarrassment.

"Were you?" he asked softly, searching her eyes and wracking his brain to remember that night clearly. He'd apologized profusely the following morning, not remembering everything in detail but hoping he had not chagrined her nor said or done anything to dishonor her. He could remember now how confused Rosaline had looked, the look of hurt in her eyes he believed he had imagined as she'd asked what it was exactly that he was sorry for. Thinking about it now Benvolio could see why Rosaline had felt offended in her pride, believing it a proof that he could never want her when in truth he only hoped that if she ever were to be his he could commit it to memory to cherish.

Rosaline closed her eyes briefly. "No," she said, then shook her head, turning her face against the inside of his palm. "I don't know. Perhaps I was, without even understand it myself then. I just - I wanted to be there for you." Opening her eyes again she looked softer than she ever had. "I know I _shouldn't_ be this unbecoming," she berated herself, "but - I _still_ do. I want to _be_ with you."

Benvolio knew how painful and hard a declaration this must have been for her, and he wished he could be eloquent enough to tame all her insecurities, to tell her that she should never fear to be _too much_ of anything with him, but any coherent thought had flown out of the window the moment she'd said the exact words he'd been certain she would never say to him.

Rosaline wanted to be with him.

Rosaline wanted _this_ , _him_.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he told her, giving her time and pause to consider. Benvolio would not dare to assume that her admission meant she wanted him _now_ , or was ready to go beyond the kiss she'd stolen from him earlier.

Rosaline met him halfway, her hands clutching at his sides as his remained cupped around her face. She was eager in his arms, her kiss hungry and fierce as she sought out his lips, opening her mouth against his. Benvolio couldn't help but gasp in surprise at her passion, at the way she seemed to try and melt into him, her whole body pressing into his as she tiptoed to reach him better. She moaned as his tongue pushed past the seam of her lips and Benvolio felt her fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt and longed to hold her just as tightly, to wrap his arms around her and carry her to their bed as he'd dreamed of doing so many nights.

He nipped at her lip, playful, and Rosaline moaned again, the sound reverberating against his mouth and straight to his groin. As much as Benvolio loved kissing her - he could do it all day and night, he was certain - he knew he had to move them inside because Rosaline deserved better than her husband ravishing her in the rosebushes. " _Rosaline_ ," he pleaded in her ear as he pressed a single, soft kiss at her temple.

She swallowed her name from his mouth, breathing her soul out and kissing his in, her lips and hands relentless as they roamed over him, pulling him to her. It did not help Benvolio be reasonable but only fueled his desire for her even more, seeing her, feeling her so free, losing herself to what she wanted instead of always being the proper lady she believed he wished her to be. He had to break away from her though before his desire for her embarrassed her. Rosaline whimpered as his lips left hers, seeking them out with her lids half-closed, and Benvolio grabbed her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before he tugged her behind him up to the front doors of their house.

The journey to their bedchambers felt surreal, something out of this world that Benvolio did not understand how he had come to deserve. Rosaline's hand in his was the only tether to reality he let himself believe in, for surely even his imagination was not wild enough to summon up the eagerness of her as she stepped ahead of him, urging him faster and _God_ , she was going to be the death of him, his lady wife, looking at him like this from beneath her lashes.

He half-pushed, half-kissed her into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot behind them, Rosaline's hands instantly returning to his sides as she grabbed at the lapels of his shirt and tugged it up his torso until he had to let go of her to slide it off his head. Throwing it carelessly to the floor Benvolio was flooded by the look in Rosaline's eyes as they roamed over his bare chest, her fingers following her gaze as she pressed her palms against him, feeling the hard planes, the fast thump of his heart. Her touch was tentative, feather-light and exploratory at the same time, as if she'd suddenly remembered that a lady ought not to be so eager, so passionate.

"You're so wonderful," Benvolio could not keep the awe in his words back as he took her in, lips plump and red from his kisses, lost curls escaping her updo, and brown eyes gleaming with a fire that seemed to surprise them both. He bent down to catch her lips with his again, his hands going to her waist, holding her closer as hers slid up his neck, playing with the hair at the back of his head.

Her breath hitched in her throat as his fingers started untying the laces at the back of her dress, and Benvolio swore at his own eagerness. He'd been losing himself in her too much, forgetting that as willing as Rosaline seemed to be she was still inexperienced and vulnerable and that it fell to him to be patient. But as he tried to pull away Rosaline grabbed his arm, holding it still around her frame. "I want this," she reasserted, eyes locked with his, _daring_ him to deny her. "Just - walk me through it?" she asked softly.

Benvolio nodded. This was as much a surprise as it was not, knowing his wife - Rosaline liked to know things, to learn and to understand. "I can do that," he promised, and resumed working on the laces of her dress as he added, "I need you out of this dress or I swear I'll _rip_ it." But in this position Benvolio couldn't quite see what he was doing. Grabbing her waist he turned her around, and Rosaline's fingers sought out something to hold onto. They found the corner of her dressing table and Benvolio caught the dazed look in her eyes as they locked with his in the mirror atop it. He groaned at the sight, feeling his arousal press against his breeches painfully. "God, you're so beautiful," he murmured again, his lips finding the skin of her shoulder as he finally untied her laces and the pins in her hair in the process. "Can I?" he asked, gesturing at her dress.

Rosaline nodded her head, still surveying him in the mirror, and Benvolio worked on getting her out of her bodice and dress, leaving her to stand in only her thin, lacy shift. She turned around, leaning against the dressing table and Benvolio surged in, pressing his entire body against hers as he kissed her again. Rosaline's kisses were intoxicating, leaving him craving for more. His lips then ventured to her neck, finding a spot behind her ear that made her knees buckle; he had to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her steady as he continued his exploration, his free hand caressing her side, curling around the curve of her hip, her thigh, as he trailed a path of kisses down the column of her throat, the top of her breast.

Rosaline moaned then, loud and low in her throat at the same time as her hand twined in his hair, the other still clutching the dressing table almost painfully, her knuckles turning white with the effort. "I - I did not know you would do _that_ ," she panted, pulling at his hair until he lifted his head and she could kiss him again. Her kisses had turned sloppy as she threw one arm around his neck, the other at his waist, her fingers playing in the dip of his back.

"Do you want me to go over every detail?" Benvolio teased, nipping at her earlobe. "Because I can, if that's what you want," he murmured in her ear. "I want to touch you everywhere."

Rosaline nodded eagerly against his neck, her face falling into the crook of his shoulder when he did just that, his hand slipping beneath her shift to stroke at the soft skin of her thigh. She trembled as his fingers dipped between her legs, still gentle as they caressed the inner skin, pulling away and curling around her backside when she moaned brokenly in his ear. Rosaline whined at the loss only to cry out as his other hand tugged at her shift to reveal her breast, his fingers cupping the round flesh. He gave her nipple a flick of his thumb, his eyes never leaving hers to gauge her reactions. " _Yes_ ," Rosaline whimpered, fingers pressing into his back, effectively pressing him into her in the process. Benvolio's hips bumped against her pelvis and Rosaline's eyes, half-dazed as they were, flew open as she felt him against her. "I can _feel_ you," she said, amazed at her discovery, and her beaming smile made Benvolio's heart threaten to explode. Rosaline shifted her leg then, seemingly trying to get him closer to her as she locked her thigh around his hip and let go of her dressing table to clutch at him with both hands, keeping him there.

It would have been so easy for Benvolio to forget himself then, to lift her up in his arms and claim her, surrendering to the passion and fire her every kiss and moan fueled in him; so easy to take his pleasure and give in his needs. Rosaline made it hard to think with all her soft noises and encouragements she made, and her eagerness made up for her lack of experience.

But Benvolio wanted this to be special for her as it'd never been particularly special for him, nothing but an ache and a release that did not require a name or a commitment like the one they shared to one another. Rosaline was his wife, lady of his house and of his heart - for all his thoughts of claiming her, she'd been the one claiming _him_ from the start. He wanted her to feel good, to feel _adored_. "For the love of God, Capulet," he groaned against her chest as he dipped his head to her breast, pressing a wet kiss to her peak, feeling the thunder of her heartbeat underneath. She moaned, louder, as her own head fell backwards, and Benvolio wrapped his lips around her nipple, sucking softly, listening to her growing ragged breathing. He only stopped when Rosaline started rolling her hips against his. Benvolio wasn't even certain she was aware she was doing it, but he knew _he_ for sure could not focus on her pleasure if she kept up with it. "Bed," he only managed to whimper against her mouth as she kissed him hard, and Rosaline shrieked gleefully as he caught her beneath her thighs, lifting her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed.

He dropped her carefully on the mattress and Rosaline looked up at him with wide, loving eyes as her arms came around him, pulling him along with her. Benvolio fell on top of her, propping his weight with his elbows at her sides. He kissed her softly then, slow and sweet, taking the time to taste her, her scent filling the air around them. _I love you_ was on the tip of his tongue and Benvolio hoped she could feel it because he did not trust his voice in that moment.

Rosaline did not seem to mind, nor did she seem to need his guidance anymore. He lifted her shift up, revealing her glorious body, and though Rosaline looked bashful for a minute she quickly let it go under his admiring gaze. When his lips ventured back to exploring her body she cooed softly at him, her hand slipping in his hair, holding his head as he licked and sucked on her nipple, his free hand coming up to stroke her other breast. He trailed a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her sternum, her stomach; he felt Rosaline tense as he reached her navel and looked up at her, his chin propped on her belly. "This will feel good," he promised, stroking her hip with his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "If it doesn't, tell me then and I'll stop. I just want you to feel good." _Trust me_ was what he meant, and Rosaline understood it, nodding her head as she willed herself to relax, her hand getting loose as she still ran her fingers in his hair but more to anchor herself than to control his movements. At the first flick of his tongue up her folds Rosaline whimpered his name, stretching every syllable.

She half-moaned, half-giggled as he licked at her. "Your beard," she mumbled. "It tickles." Benvolio laughed against her and the reverberation made Rosaline arch her back against him as she held his head there. Benvolio redoubled his efforts, dipping his tongue at her entrance, feeling the heat of her gather there. He had not expected her to be so wet, so ready for him. He kept stroking her thigh as he focused on the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, and Rosaline started trembling slightly at the pressure.

She did not know what to do with her hands. One was clutching at their sheets, the other pulling at his hair, pulling him up for a messy, bruising kiss before she was pushing him down again. Once, twice she repeated the action, chasing her taste on his lips, pursuing her own pleasure in such a carefree, empowering way, Benvolio had to tell her how magnificent she looked. "My lady," he said against her mouth, her breast, her stomach as he traced her body down to where she needed him most. He focused his attention on her bud, plucking it out of its hood with his tongue. Sweat was slicking both their bodies at the effort, and Benvolio started rolling his hips into the mattress, seeking some release of his own, just enough pressure to help him focus on the task at hand.

Rosaline was growing restless, seeking her pleasure but not quite reaching it. Sliding up her body Benvolio dipped a hand in her hair and kissed her deeply while his other hand tracked back down her stomach and slipped between her legs. A single finger teased at her entrance, but Benvolio waited for Rosaline to catch up on his action and the slight, trembling nod of her head before he slowly pushed it in. Rosaline's legs closed around him instantly, keeping him there as the back of his hand rubbed against the apex of her thighs, giving her bundle of nerves the right amount of pressure she needed to finally let go.

Rosaline reaching her peak was a sight to see, her breasts flushed against his naked chest, her nipples hard and pebbled, her fingers digging into his biceps as she gasped, her lips pressed against his as she found her climax, the rhythmic clench and release of her walls around Benvolio's fingers making him groan against her mouth in turn. He kept stroking at her, hoping that the stretch and pleasure both helped her when he finally would be inside her.

Rosaline kept kissing him until wave after wave of pleasure finally did exhaust her and she cooed softly as she came back to herself, her face nuzzled in Benvolio's chest. He stroked at her back soothingly, still not quite believing that this strong, beautiful woman was in his arms, that he'd been the one making her whimper and moan like she had.

"How - what even?" Rosaline started to babble incoherently as she found her voice again. "What was - ?"

Benvolio grinned against her mouth. "I told you I did know some things, Capulet," he said before he kissed her deeply, soft and sweet and slow, learning the taste of her after she'd come, committing it to memory.

Rosaline only half poked at his chest in return, too blissfully dazed to chide him about his gloating apparently. Benvolio could not take his eyes off of her; she looked so beautiful, so young and carefree, so regal too, lying down with her shift rolled up her stomach, absolutely rid of any bashfulness she'd felt earlier in the night. She stroked at his back lazily, watching him from beneath hooded eyes. Benvolio almost wanted to tuck her in, sleepiness overtaking her after her release.

But Rosaline had other plans. The hand at his back slid down, suddenly joined by her other hand at the front of his breeches. Benvolio cocked an eyebrow at her and Rosaline stared up at him, defiance and fierceness sparking in her eyes. "I want to feel you too," she admitted, her voice stronger than the incoherent babbles she'd formed just before. And it was that defiance and fierceness Benvolio loved more than anything else about her, how she refused to be denied her right to explore his body as he'd done hers, how she had learned about pleasure and sought it without any restraint, without any apology.

Rosaline was a quick study, learning the shape of him, the right way to stroke him to bring him to full attention, how to tighten her fist, when to let her fingers loose. In the end it was Benvolio who had to stop her, and Rosaline grinned against his neck, murmuring that it was obvious that _she_ did know some things _too_. Benvolio shut her up with a kiss as he rolled her on her back again and hovered over her, a silent question in his eyes that Rosaline answered with words he had not expected to hear tonight. " _I love you_ ," Rosaline told him as she brought a hand to his cheek, stroking his mussed hair away from his eyes. "I want you."

Benvolio thrust in at that, kissing at every piece of skin he could reach, willing his wife to relax. After the initial gasp of surprise Rosaline seemed to quickly adjust, the time he'd spent coaxing pleasure out of her having done its purpose in helping her body accommodate him. She started meeting his slow thrusts with her own, her hands roaming everywhere, and Benvolio thanked God as he felt his own pleasure build up that Rosaline was so attuned to him for she encouraged him softly, her nails scratching at his scalp and back as she pressed him closer to her and clenched around him, spurring him on towards his own release. His thrusts turned faster, more shallow, and Benvolio kissed her messily, wet and hot as he slipped a hand between them, rubbing at her bundle of nerves in tiny, rough circles as he felt himself let go inside of her.

Rosaline moaned in his mouth as he did, shaking around him. " _Benvolio_ ," she whimpered his name, branding it across his heart with her love.

She _loved_ him. Benvolio wanted to scream it on top of the roof, and tell her how much he loved her too. So he did, still pressed into her, his arms wrapped around her and his mouth on her. "I love you," he said once, because she deserved to know. Twice, to make sure she understood. Three, four, five times as he melted around her kisses, wanting nothing more than to stay in bed with her forever.

He fought off sleep as she cuddled against him, warm and sleepy, yawning around her _I love you_.

When he finally surrendered to sleep, wrapped around his wife as the last of the candles burned out, Benvolio truly felt at home for the first time in a while.

Looking down at Rosaline, his beloved, his Capulet, and the sweet daze she wore even in sleep, Benvolio knew she felt the same.

 

* * *

 

_the end_

 

 


End file.
